By Courtney Quinlan
Unleash The Depth Of Your Inner Wild
A trilogy: part II of III — read part I here.
My wild opens slowly, and quietly, a rusty skeleton key hidden in an antique tin case with a Chinese dragon imprinted on the front, resting among scales of snakeskin and drops of lavender oil.
The key given to me, the one that unlocks my chest, pulling apart flower petals and unhinging rib cage. Gently pulling on muscle, cracking bone like cracking a curios cabinet.
One heart placed here. One crystal ball placed there, a tangle of vessels that twinkle like lightbulbs on a vine.
A feel of swift wings in the night, silent, wide open and sensitive to surroundings. You would see a barn owl in flight, with stolen eyes. Eyes that look like mine.
Unleashed I am a fire tornado who spins and dances a path through whatever I like. Touching down, grounding for a moment, but never long enough to stay, long enough to make a deep impression, to leave my mark upon the land, dwindling as I travel, spitting ash and smoke.
My wild is a cradle, a space within collarbone for tired heads to rest, for those who need their story heard, for those whose love I wrap around and inside of, for those who enter me.
Wild is my heart and head with repetitious thought and beat after beat after beat.
My wild is a sharp blade, an untamed tongue that speaks what it will and makes no apologies for truth, for the way of the words and the why of the words that curl my lips and clash with my teeth.
My wild touches you when you need a presence, when you need some courage or just a hand to rest within yours, a body beside you, and ear waiting patiently.
Unleashed I am aurora borealis in the frigid sky. I call you in the form of colour and silence, still hours of the night.
In dreams, we will meet, perhaps in another life, a different time and you will see me. You will feel my wild and hear it say,
“My wild is a soft home, a forest floor, a storm rolling in across the lake. My wild is a crashing wave, a song the mourning dove sings. My wild is the howl you hear when your world falls silent, when time escapes you and you find yourself away. When you leave your comfort behind and you press your feet to earth and say to yourself. I remember this. I remember this smell or this voice or this touch or these words or the way she looked at me. She is wild. Her blood runs wild and hot, her blood runs with me. Flowing like water over stones, her wild has shaped me, has taught me and left me changed. Her wild is a seer. A whisper that remains.”
My wild is rebellion. My wild is intimate anarchy.
My wild speaks the laws of nature. My wild answers to no one. My wild is my one truth, painstakingly raw and willing.
Unleashed, I am naked, I am bare. I am human before you. I am flawed as all who are Wild. We are not manicured or quiet or safe.
We are the ones who dare, who regenerate, who weave the wild words like hands and fingers and limbs, we intertwine.
I wrap myself in coloured skin, with pictures I’ve collected and bled for, stories who walk with me, I contour the curves and the crevices, I climb back in and bring the wild with me.
I swallow it whole, letting it take hold, trickling through my veins.
➵ Listen to Courtney read her magic out loud here.