I can dance the lead in Swan Lake. When I'm en pointe, I leave behind tulle and satin and ribbon and I become Odette. From first position to fifth, I am grace and poise and I leap through the air as though I am weightless.
I am heavy. I am sad. Your words have cut me in a place that won't heal and I don't know how to make the salve that the maidens, mothers, and crones spoke of in the heavy, bound books of our herstory.
I am moonlight. I illuminate the ocean and cast a soft glow across romantic dinners and midnight drives. I feel the breeze because I am the breeze, all sea salt and mist and the exhaled breath of relief and release. I am sinew and the long, lean, and limber movements of a yogi at dawn.
I am sleep. I am vanilla and lavender, relaxation and quiet and calm. I am done screaming, done trying to get you to notice who I am beneath this veil of hair, this velvet cloak, this verdant skin. I am double double toil and trouble and I know you better than you think.
I am a firecracker. I am an oasis. I am the last mile of the marathon that tries to convince you to give up even though you're so close to finishing. I am a warm towel taken from the dryer, wrapped around you after a shower or swim. I am the droplets of water that fall on your shoulders when you get caught in the rain. I am broken windows and flat tires and your steamroller of a boss. I am the conscience you ignore, the devil lingering near your clavicle who only wants one more bite, one more drink, one more fuck. I am the angel perched nearby, the embodiment of all that is good in the world. I am made of gold thread and white silks and even though this halo is getting heavy, I can still fly.