‘The pressure is getting to her..’
you say with that gutflip curl to your lip
and the laugh that isn’t a laugh
it’s a warning signal
a trip wire
a remark meant to whittle me back down to the size you find me most manageable
like fun size halloween candy
but not as sweet.
I spent a lifetime in my head last year
because something had crossed,
wires or a black cat or a chemical reaction,
my brain had shifted
and now I find that I have developed a subtle curl to my lip.
But seeing that will never amuse you
and you know what they say about last laughs…
You had pushed me into the danger zone and I resisted,
because the unknown
the conflicts were too much
or I was too less.
But like any fearful walk
once you learn the way,
and the graveyard whistle becomes less a shield
and more a song in your head,
you take time to see the trees and avoid the tripping spots
and remember to look up at the stars
and count the beats between the lightning and thunder in your head
finding a rhythm you can dance to.
You pressed me too tightly and instead of breaking
I am starting to shine.
The softness wearing away to expose facets glittering in the light
and the knowledge of what I am worth
even if my whistle is off key
even if my dance is more marionette than swan.
The pressure is getting to me,
yes it is,
it’s breaking through the crust and Old Faithful-ing out of me.
And I am cheering
look at what I made!
look at me shine!
I have put up signposts in the danger zone with bright marker lettering
It never says safe.
but the gates are easily unlocked once you know what keys you need
you probably had them with you all the time….
I’m starting to shine,
and I suggest you put some dark sunglasses on
and step carefully
out of my way.