I am the granddaughter
of all the women
you burned
for refusing to kneel
before weak men.

I am the granddaughter
of all the warriors
slain on the battlefield
for the children they birthed
to breathe free air.

I am the granddaughter
of all the goddesses
sacrificed on the altar
of history, called "Unknown",
yet leaving their fingerprints
on the face of the Earth.

Be careful
when you see the glint
of a fire
in my irises;
we learned to consume
the flames
meant to **** us.

Some moments,
I am Atlas,
and the world is resting
snugly between my shoulder blades,
and I am set
with the determination of a thousand warriors
to never let it slip, for I become euphoric
from overcoming impossibility.

And then, some moments,
I am the Mimosa pudica,
a "Touch-Me-Not" woman, weary
of unclean hands leaving bruises on my skin,
and I am withdrawn
so tightly into the universe within my own black hole
that I can't remember how
to climb out again.

If you are to love me,
love me as both
a powerful Titan - an ancient goddess -
and
a gentle flower,
a delicate bloom:

to be respected,
to be honored,
to be valued,
but also -

to be nurtured
when the Sun has been most cruel,
for it is hard to be
both strong
and vulnerable.

Each day,
I count the highway signs
as I pass by,
hoping to follow them all
and tattoo them on my skin
with the dust of my tires.

Each day,
I drive the same route to work
and then home,
wishing,
just once,
my heart would go off-road.

Each night,
I mournfully regale the moon
with tales
of journeys great men traveled,
trips brave women blazed,
and my own bland,
listless meanderings between
work
and then home.

Each night,
the Moon beckons me
to chase the horizon
with open arms,
calls vehemently
for the chained thing
beating in my breast
to fly headfirst
into the Unknown.

One night
I will listen.

Don't worry, love,
I know those gates of stone
stand firmly
to guard the most precious parts
of your soul.

I am not here like the others;
not as a warrior
planning a siege
or a strategist
plotting to knock them down.

I respect your walls too much.

You have fought in more wars
than most;
you have been betrayed by more loves
than most could survive -
your walls are the result
of your scars.

So here I stand before you,
my weapons laid down,
my intentions spread out before the Sun,
with nothing in my hands
but open palms,
asking you
to let me in.

Show me, love,
all those terrible,
beautiful
wild flowers
growing in your garden -
I want to do nothing
but paint them to remember,
and carry their fallen petals
safely in my heart.

Open up to me, please,
my love -
I am already yours.

I dipped my pen in Midnight's well,
but still, my quill remained dry.
I chased fallen stars to the Moon's mournful waterfalls,
and still, I had no tears to cry.
I followed the paths carved throughout my soul's forest,
but still, could not find where I'd let my dreams lie.
Finally, I crawled through the gates of every hell and saw
the trail leading to the grave where I'd let myself die.

The silence followed me everywhere I went;
that dreadful nothingness ringing in my ears would not relent.
No words, no words, no words could I invent
to relieve the pain caused by this constant, quiet torment.

I'm nothing. Nothing I dreamed I'd be.
I'm shipwrecked driftwood in this mighty sea,
tossed to and fro without understanding or control.
I've lost too much to ever dream of being whole.

Then, one day, an old artist told me,
"Never cover over your imperfections;
never hide the flaws beneath the perceived perfection,
because the truest beauty lies in being able to see
all the madness and chaos that birthed the masterpiece."

So I won't hide from my shadows anymore;
I won't run from the demons sleeping underneath my pillows.
I will not shrink in the light of the golden Sphinx's baleful eye;
I won't keep myself chained to never-arriving Tomorrow's.

I will face my silence until my ears are bleeding,
and from that blood will I find the words to write,
and from the river of those crimson words flooding,
perhaps I'll find the picture of what my masterpiece will look like.

Thy fingers make early flowers
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).