WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES.


Yes.
Sure.
Sex is great.
But,
Have you met a girl, whose mind is deeper than,
The tip of her fingers inside her vagina,
While masturbating?
A woman, who every morning, runs with the wolves
And each night,
Battles alongside phoenixes,
Panthers and polar bears?

Women. That have thrusted their middle finger towards humanity.
Who cuss, and wear their profanity
Like a bulletproof vest.
With no hoot of care in the world.
Love.

Have you met,
The woman that shouts out her thoughts,
In the middle of the night,
In a crowded bar downing a jar of lager
Saying, Fuck y’all for wishing her breast could be larger.
The woman that,
Doesn’t have to be sorry,
For pulling out a pack of cigarettes
When asked to chill,
Nor doesn’t,
Confide her lack of men,
To other men.
Because, long as she gets a fuck,
Nothing matters again.
She, who doesn’t pause to say sorry,
Thinking she done said too much.
When asked,
To speak what keeps her up each night,
And makes her leap off her bed each morn.

Women whose bodies are goddesses,
Making you kneel down for the offering,

Are what women with balls of steel

And,
Are the women that run with wolves.

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