The ones I like the most I let go of early. Once I stayed too long and got rope burn. now I tie them off when I’m sure I can’t walk next to them.
I run with wolves and
howl at the moon,
I dance naked in open windows and yards,
I’d drop the words “fuck”, “my goodness”, and “entrainment”
in the same story.
We have to be able to walk together before we can dance in my forests or climb in your trees.
Different animals can learn
love each other
We talk. Stalking
each other with our mysteries closed
behind our backs when
we’d rather have them on our chests or foreheads.
So we dance. You move and I move with you. I stumble and you steady. I sing and your voice lifts with it.
Your touch is light and firm, I know you’re there and I’m free to leave if I want to. Don’t make me want to.
I want to know you.
I peek from inside bushes and ferns
searching for a hint
of you out of your clothes. When the masks
hit the floor
the gong strikes,
we become cinderella chasing the hands of our human-made clocks holding the slipper of our hearts
until the silence strips us
and we go back home.
The sneering words, the castigation. Cutting me down and projecting a helplessness that isn’t mine onto me. My need for love and belonging was cut at with a serrated blade meant to eviscerate my positive sense of self.
“You’re so intelligent. Why aren’t you doing more with your life?” they say, as they look at me with expectations in their eyes.
I can only be me. What is inside is unclear, made cloudy by the murk banging around en masse.
“We were just trying to toughen you up, get you to live your potential,” they say, never wasting an opportunity to excuse negative behavior.
Maybe I needed something you didn’t think to give?
Maybe I needed something I didn’t know to ask for?
Maybe, just maybe, I am the way I am for a reason. Something this soft is made for flexibility, made for delicate precision, made to stretch across many mediums.
I don’t fit inside your rigid boxes.
You can’t pour me into your glass of “like everyone else”. I rise before I touch the sides. Assumptions close the box lid over my head, and still I seep out through the flap cracks. I have no roots. I have no firm shape.
I am a mist riding on the wind.
You expect me to be rock when I am Ocean,
to be silent when I am a scream,
I am nothing you’ve ever seen
wrapped in your sweetest dream.
If only you dared to open
and know me.