Somethings aren’t meant to be. 

Wild women are poor nightingales, roaring in the morning and toppling bedrooms under feet. They sink mouths of teeth into wallpaper summers, and claw and eat all the kitchenware and vases and runners. Having lovers and bearing fires; clanking like skeletons and drooling forward as a sea wall in their ires. Lashing ladies making babies and thumping them into fists; throwing wooden spoons from their tiny grips and shoving battle axes into their fingers. Take this and kiss devils, child. A pop of hip sends mountains crumbling, a blink of eyelid leaves hallow graves rumbling; all mighty things come out in throngs and pay homage to the savage sisters in song. Sacrifices and bloody alms envelope howling lush lips, crooning wombs and clapping palms. Somethings are greatness and touched by grandness wand. 

But, somethings are not meant to be. 

You flee from a single wasp, blush before a single fall. Cry you do from menstration crosses, death and losses; you have no wonder, only fear. When the dawn breaks you give no warrior cry nor worthy tear. Somethings, aren’t meant to be. 

I am sorry for your lot, but there is no throne for you here. 

Only thrones for midnight dances, full moon gyrations, and banging drums and thunder daughters and lightning sons. But for you, of frigid foot and nervous tongue, I am sorry but, for you there is nothing. Some spirits are born to stare down the barrel of a shotgun. Some are not. 

You are one of those.