my She Wolves,
makers of medicine, massages, and moonlight.
Shes who listen to the ancient lore
when it whispers,
“make haste, for the queen in me
sees the queen in you
and the prayers we once knew,
reciting as we picked at our fingernails,
will not suffice anymore.”
so we ran
we made it to the sea -
and, with great joy, we discovered
that the sun, 
who we were once taught is a god,
rejoices in our breasts and folds,
and that the sand beneath our feet
is exfoliation for our tired tribulations
and within it all,
that prayer is not a binding hammer,
but tides of teal and gold
that carry us gently
until we return home.
.
upon returning,
we will braid flowers through our hair
and rub lavender oil along our collarbones
sit by the fire and drink cranberry tea.
i look forward to lying in your lap
as you trace my face with your
fingertips.
.
my She Wolves,
sisters who gallop through old growth forests,
you are my last hope
and i am overcome with gratitude

note: this series is incredibly incomplete and lacking in diversity - it would be my honor to photograph you, however old or young or large or small or dark or light you might be (as long as you're over 18), or any non-binary or gender fluid beauties you might know, in their own expression of their wild, natural "femme," or as i prefer to call it, their freedom. email me! let's make. let's rejoice.