I don’t want your fire to overpower mine.
But sometimes, I quiet crystallize it, capture it in stone. Vow to come back and erupt. Never do.
Your fire takes precedence. It burns white hot and no one ever taught you how to hold it-yourself still.
You don’t even want to know.
No one ever taught you to put me first.
I don’t want to live in your shadow.
But sometimes, I shrink down miniscule water droplets, turn gray black shade,
Pretend I am made of porcelain, precious magic to protect. Ego nursing.
I want to be so big that sometimes you can’t even fit in the house without
Honey I shrunk the Kids-ing yourself.
I want to take up more space than sometimes kept in cages, in thoughts,
Dipped in batter and swallowed whole.
I am made of flexible material. Both crystal and steel, yet silk and feathers. Too light, too pure to fight beside.
Compare me to the builds of horses, of fast moving cars, the softness of baby’s skin, warmth of sunshine,
How clingy your woman is-
How she clings to you as if she cannot live without you inside of her.
I don’t want to be a person you can fold: Laundried bones, skin like tarps, heart collapsible like convenient toys.
I don’t like being a voice in the back of the head of children & men.
I want to be heard, voice expanding the space in the room, the house so effected,
I add rings to already dead trees, wood in our floors.
And sometimes, you will have to learn to shrink-to crystallize your fire and let mine wash you over.
Find comfort in my burning rays, tingling through to your fingertips, toes alive for the white hot fury I send into the atmosphere.
Because I am not like you-all stone and fire, no silk.
I have been trained to make myself disappear, so tiny, you will lose me.
And your world will be made worse for the loss.