I was gifted with visions of a man who wanted and loved me.
It felt wonderful, but as I travel, I calculate the improbability.
Here I am in my hooded cloak, still traveling through harsh weather, heavy wool rain-saturated – my faltering feet lifted by legs as tight as leather.
Hair bescraggled in the morning, unkempt by the night’s fitful tossing. Eyes haggard by traumas and fears – were they my own, or just what I had to hack through to find my way to you?
How is any of this attractive – given what’s marketed in media?
What man would great a skilled woman warrior and think that she could be warm and vulnerable when her face is smuged grim with firm-jawed chin and her soul is still haunted by the wounded?
Candid Corvid Productions 