Puddles

I would like to apologize to myself for dimming my own light so someone else can shine.

For mistaking happiness with someone else’s pleasure.

For forgetting to hear my own heartbeat’s pace — the wildness of a wolf love, tender in her desire to protect the pack and fierce in her need for survival.

I would like to apologize to myself for forgetting myself.

I would like to remember every ounce of water in me that was ever a cloud or icicle or the mouth of another life’s lover.

I would like to sing a fortress song, a spell that doesn’t cast, shadow in the midday sun, warmth when autumn’s past.

If I forget to mind my mistress or forget to feed my muse, I forget to feed my inner wish, the wisdom in “I choose.”

Until whisper hears a boneyard and boundary I break. Until I feed the monster memory and fill the well of fate.

It dumps her puddles at my feet; I promise I can take them. I only ask her this one thing:

let it be honest.