For the Love of Myself
Growing, changing,
Chaos was my organized thought.
Guessing and imagining—
through the cloud of others’ opinions,
who I wanted to become.
Growing in a shell that would not stretch,
choking on the blood that was shed to save me,
begging for help from men who were too lost to care that I was drowning,
I was alone.
Frozen, sculpted into a perfect Christian woman,
never questioning God,
never biting the hand that fed me,
submission was my language of love.
My fear?
Having my own opinion.
Knowing the balance
between being a daughter and being a woman.
The very thought of divergence sent my knees clattering a rhythm,
that had been played by so many knees before them.
My head reeled with questions
that my sheltered and holy mind
was just beginning to present.
Out of obedience,
I remained silent.
Always siding with oppression,
by omission.
Was it okay to stray from the values instilled in me?
Who knows? But I did it.
I opened my mouth and the wine, once willingly consumed, spilled out.
Aged too long,
bittered by the hate blended in,
it was sweetened by the realization of love.
I relieved myself of silent submission,
of giving myself to a God who stood for judgement,
I taught myself a new rhythm:
a rhythm of acceptance.
Washed clean from ignorance,
I am a woman,
and I am proud of it.
Every person around me is beautiful,
and I am never going back,
for now that I have walked away from conviction,
I’ll never return to the taste of it.