Less Me

There once was a girl with a pocket of sky,

who dined on storms and swallowed the why.

She stitched up herself with hope made of gold

then wondered why the seams still let in the cold.

She watered her patience.

She polished her grace.

She handed out forgiveness

in every wrong place.

She gave away pussy,

her blankets, her bread.

But she kept all the thoughts

that clogged up her head.

"Just one more favor."

"Just one more day."

"Just one more apology."

"Just give it away."

So she folded herself

like a napkin at tea

and became very poised

at being less me.

But one tiny morning

her shadow grew tall.

It climbed on the table

and pissed on it all.

"My sweet, little darling,"

the shadow said bright,

"you cannot keep shrinking

to be called polite."

The shadow started a fire

behind a loose wall.

The girl stepped into it,

answered its call.

Now some people whisper,

"She's changed. She's unkind."

But all the girl's doing

is feeding her mind.

She lives like a kite

with no hand on the string.

She flies where she wants,

sometimes tangling with trees.

She still has a drawer

full of things she outgrew:

old names, ticket stubs,

a brittle condom or two.

Sometimes they knock.

Sometimes they scream.

Sometimes they ask her

if she misses a thing.

She says, "Maybe."

She says, "I don't know"

while a child hums

a song from below.

The names keep talking.

The faces still grin.

The girl she buried

keeps pounding within.

She runs from the memories

and bundles up scars,

but leaves a night window

wide open to stars.

Because growing is strange

when the old things still call.

But a girl with a fire

was never meant to stay small.

I was inspired by Sara Wilson's poem "Say It." If she reads this, I hope she likes it.

Here is the link to Sara's poem:

https://vocal.media/poets/say-it-eb98d79136#comment-2588da8d-81c5-4344-afe2-ff50e690e574