Archetypes | The Wild Ingenue
When she wakes: she wakes heavy with renewed purpose, the world is not ready for the alley cat's soft feet, or the pinched, Rorschach marks her nails bite into her supple bruised thighs.
She's fooled them all with her Versace mother of pearls, she had herself fooled too--but now the gauntlet's run, the clock strikes twelve and she finally knows the answer, she knows which way the wretched garden lawn of her wayward heart lies.
The cast of her skin clatters to the floor like spilled, pearlescent pennies, her nails run rivers through the fine vestal gossamer worn for her husband and out flies the heavy gilded collar.
She unwinds the Good Housewife teachings from her bones and lays bare her truth:
I am my mother's daughter and no cage can hold me. I was born of a wild thing and there I will return.