Feral

Before I go feral.

Before I go make my home in a moss-covered hovel.

Before I leave behind my lipstick and mirrors and stop pulling out the tiny branches that I’ve captured in my hair while running naked through the trees.

Before I forget the joy of lounging in the net of our shared language and instead turn my conversation to the spiders who knit webs over my door.

Before I go and commit such an act of disobedience, I ask you to do one thing: Please, tell me I’m beautiful.

Please tell me in words but also in the way you watch me take in the first sunny days of April. Hands open. Eyes open. Legs, just as you like them.

Please, help me find that endless well. Hold a copper cup to my lips and let me drink until I remember that I am more than these dusty suitcases and threadbare dresses.

Please, ask me to stay. Ask me to bloom like the crocuses, the daffodils, the raspberry blossoms. Ask me to count down the days until we can jump in the open ocean, laughing and catching salt water in our mouths.

Please, ask me to remember the way you see me, and I promise I’ll try to live here for a while longer.