Thirst of the Tangle

Often people see the wars women have as being split in twain: those of sensuality and those of pain.

Each battle cordoned off and kept separate. The walls between them rigid and unmoving — placed by god, instinct, or the carnal cravings of they who assume run-amok.

But when the time has come where two rivals forsake normalcy and logic — civility and societal norms, and lunge for one another. Such limits of engagement and restrictions of battleground are blown away like a light puff of smoke hit by a heavy gust of wind.

For the warring of one woman against another, when it it springs from deep-seeded hate and soul-scarring jealousy, is in its essence: primal.

In its very occurrence and nature animalistic.

A kindle of flame set free to become inferno.

A cloud turned black and grim as the skies around it shake at bolt and then glow as its lightning flashes.

In such cataclysm, hate becomes desire and violence becomes pleasure. Emotions that were a moment before pure and unaffected mixing with their opposite, and then binding in chemistry. Loathing and obsession, need and resentment, fear of defeat and the same of their feud’s cessation fusing in a cauldron of boiling, conflict-brought adrenaline.

Neither rival within the eye of the storm knowing what they want or why.

Their minds fogged as their naked bodies wrap around one another, and their hands grasp for whatever flesh they might find.

Their eyes piercing and intense, though wet with tears begging to be shed. For defeat’s sake. For abandonment’s sake. For the life-changing intensity that such a fight brings.

And as those eyes glisten and glare, each woman struggling to hurt the other, their sexs search for one another.


Without shame or acknowledgement.

Decision or derision.

For in the midst of such a clash, where nature has overcome nurture — and rancor has overcome reason, there is no need to apologize for satiation of a salacity shared.

No need to satisfy the calling of violence without quenching the thirst of the tangle.

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