I appear in my truest form.

Never tainted by the hands

of what others want to

craft me to be.

Never forged into a byproduct

from the assembly line of life.

I face this world head on

and straightforwardly.

Planting all of myself into

the foundation of the Earth

I stand upon.

And I never falter

with the cowering of

impressionable minds.

I hold steady.

I remain pure.

I appear in my truest form

for all those to see.

Refusing to repair parts

of myself

that are not damaged.

Allowing my soul to be

the graceful hands of an artist

who paints the canvas

of my world

through my eyes.

Sometimes, I find myself

trapped in an empty room.

But... this specific room

isn't filled with an oppressive darkness.

The walls don't whisper

a devilish call in my ears.

And cold doesn't capture me

in an icy embrace.

In this room, it is still.

It is silent.

It is hollow.

And I am just there

sharing space among the nothingness.

In this room I should feel peace,

perhaps even serenity,

but there I stand and

I am impracticable.

I am insignificant.

I am inane.

And I am entirely alone.

I want to write about you.

I want to voice

every part of you

that has clung to

every part of me.

A thick, heavy tar that you are

I can't seem to break free of.

I want to write about you.

I want to reveal,

every resentment I have

of the inevitable tie your motherhood

has had to mine.

I want to write about you.

I want to express,

release,

tear open my vulnerability to

every experience,

every feeling,

every heartache,

every wound

every trauma.

But, then, I am that quiet child,

once again,

brought back from buried time.

A shy child desperately wrapping

her tiny arms around herself,

sitting anxiously inside the presence

of yet another stranger's home.