By Swarnali Patra.
No, she doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. She drapes it like a red dress with blue and black undertones around her whole body – even her chapped bare feet. Her veins and arteries are crocheted to aggrandize it with embroidery.
Once, she was a casualty of her own goodness as she had been doling out shards of her beating gold to people who took it to titivate the trophy case of their minds, varnished with egocentricity. She was a trainwreck masquerading as an embellishment.
But, masks are deceptive, so alchemy backfired.
Eventually, her red dress became gold and then turned to titanium. She dissed the silk gowns and put on an armour carved out of her own bones. She skin was only her cloak. She became a she wolf – a name lost in translation, a spirit crocked up in a champagne bottle.
Today, she execrates pomp and grandeur or sipping tea from fine china. She is a wildcat who annihilates her antagonists and their armies, and drinks their blood in her cup of meliorism as she raises a toast to her pack. She doesn’t speak in hushed tones to gratify your idea of a lady. When she roars and howl, she capperclaws the sky to rip the thunder out of it. Sure as hell, she doesn’t paint her nails; she has paws to slay your vanity with pride, lust with passion and ignorance with satori. She is more than a dualist.
She is married to the night and prances around in the cemetery, where she had once burnt her innocence, hopes, and idealism to the ground only to use those as fertilizers for the germination of a better version of her. No, she isn’t a goddess you worship. She alone is a hectare of forest. Not virgin forests though – she falls, she decays, she is a wildfire that fuels forest fires and even as she rebuilds herself. Sure, you can bend her, but prepare yourself to be spifflicated, for she is unbreakable. So formidable is her charisma that she seems to sublime. She is such a maverick that makes you want to be like her. She is so anchored, her movements seem like majestic flights, so strong that resilience wants to woo her.
She finds her hero, cynosure and saviour within her because she knows that warmth resides in fire itself and a battleground is contronymous to life. She isn’t necromantic, she is the one who conjures magic.
She wears an armour of chaotic bones and drapes her vulnerabilities, morphing them into her strengths. She personifies empowerment, as she is the fire from which phoenixes emerge. Yes, she is a she-wolf.