twoblueviolets

this is not a poem. 

this is not a song.

this is not metaphor, a sonnet, an ode, not a ballad, a rant, not even a dream–

this is a plea. 

"Oh little girl,"

They say with distain 

Usually followed by a suggestion on how to change myself 

But I don't want to change 

"Oh little girl,"

With tears in their eyes 

No. 

I refuse to be afraid.

We are so caught in the coming climb

We forget to turn and see the cliffs we've scaled.

I am living in a country where a woman is bracing for a climb to greater heights

I rule a kingdom incompetent of content,

My brain may be the bearer of my walls,

The encapsulated fluency of marrow in this bone,

These rugged feet yearn strolling farther in the night;

every day my friend asks me

how many days.

every day my answer shrinks

and we shudder

willing ourselves to believe in light and truth and good

but can't help whispering