Oh no, you are suffering an illusion, for I was not born in blood and pain…come screaming into this world pushed forth from the womb.

 No, I sprung out from the bowels of the earth, knock-kneed and fully horned, from the dark and secret catacombs of the soil and soul. My body a pillar of strength, my roots embracing the Goddess, my arms uplifted the sky.

  Yes, you are suffering an illusion, for I was not born mortal and tenuous, ignorant of life, thrown rudely into existence with an infant’s wail. I howled like a Lupa in the joy of the hunt, and screeched like a hawk on a hot summer thermal.

  Run with me like a heathen beneath a starlit sky. Sing with abandon to the Luna moon. Shed your civilized trappings ’till you lay bare to my gaze. Forget all this world has taught you, for the rules do not apply here, and I do not fit your mold. You cannot sculpt me into a pleasing shape, nor trim my spirit to a manageable size. Don’t bother with such a foolish notion.

  If you wish to walk this path with me, you must come baring shield and sword, prepared to defend the walls of your heart, as I storm them like the Pagan I am.

  So tell me, my lover, do you still think me easy? Do you still think me sweet and mild? Are you still tempted by the starlight in my eyes, to tame that which has always been wild?

  Come then, would-be hunter, you tiger in the grass, for you look to be succulent prey. I’ll show you the folly of choosing such a beast, for your play.


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