Here I Stand

They said that time would wear me smooth, wash me pure, wear me down — sand away my edges, and drown out the person I pretend not to be.

I failed.

Pull apart my bones, tear me asunder, leave nothing whole left to name, like driftwood smashed on cragging cliffs.

Penitence.

They said the sea would teach me: softness, humility, surrender. Stand on an ocean headland as the storm rolls in and know — really know — you are small.

I tried.

But sorrow's grief has grown a ghost in me, and prayer slung hands soon turn to fists.

Fist to harm.

Years have passed. And the story of me is marred by scars more than celebrations.

Unafraid.

I learned to bend, not break. I learned to break the things that would not bend.

Alone.

I became the storm — the thundering wave, the far cry, the pounding on the ocean floor.

The monster.

I became the Kraken, for those who sought to see truth too deep.

Here I became — Me.

When time and tides are done with me, here I stand. Alone. Unbroken. Resolved. Unmoving. Salt-bitten. Storm-marked. Scarred. Whole. Unapologetically.

Here I stand.