Uneasy does the modern womans wounded feet walk the path called freedom. I often wonder if I want too much. My mother raised me to take strong strides with my head high. My father told me a real man doesn't need you to bow low.
This man who says he wants to be my husband has never asked me to drop my skull or bare my scalp, but some things don't need to be said in words. His friends are not fond of me because my teeth have a tendency to let lose cutting words.
I am known for my independent walk, all or nothing, not one for rushing in mainstream line. I am fine taking the high road. My legs often ache, but I take pride in knowing they aren't flimsy like a fake rubber dolls.
I enjoy the feeling of being raw, knowing the wild wind, and riding lightning. I don't find men to be frightening, in turn it is often I they fear fighting, for I am easy to waspish nature.
Never have I met a stranger that I allowed the chance to strangle my swan like throat.
I take pride in my feminine hands whose palms are calloused from sword play.
Will I not know the day when a man is strong enough to respect my wilderness? Is it so hard to understand if I want to hold his hand I am a grown enough woman to ask for it first?