womanhood

In the crooks of my heart a secret lies buried. I was sculpted from the ruins of all the women that came before me. I scare people away with the magnitude of my desire, I've collapsed bridges before I had the chance to cross or burn them, and I only know how to tell a story if something about it is cursed. Despite the doubts, I'm an honest woman, or an honest attempt at being a woman. I have an animal hunger and clever eyes. In the dead of night, I step into the nocturnal light in my rain boots and wait for the familiar howl of some distant star to show me what flightless bird I come from, wait for the answer to satiate me. What does a woman do with all the secrets she can't even bring herself to whisper? No real woman writes this much about how real of a woman she is because a real woman has nothing to prove but I always feel like I have something to prove. I always doubt my reality or my womanhood or both. I doubt even my own doubt. Everything but the nocturnal light and the howling stars. Everything but my hunger, wretched animal in me, never satiated, always searching for who to devour next.