You know her.
She is part of your fabric, your dance, your daily rhythm. She is your sister, your mother, your daughter, your friend.
You owe her.
Without her you would cease to exist. She moves your blood, guards your possessions, sustains and entertains you.
She makes you whole.
You need her.
Your partner, your wife, your lover, your pet.
The subdued dragon you keep chained to your side.
You love her, true. But it's harder to love her now, isn't it?
She makes it so much harder to love her.
It's easy to blame her for all of it.
Her fierce outbursts. Her capricious moods. Her wild tears, near constant now as she toils invisibly under the weight of her transformation.
Her hide, scarred and thickened with time, cracks with every sob and heavy sigh. Why must everything be so heavy, you wonder? Why can't she just be as she was before?
When you found her, she was pure. She was sunshine. The kind you want to drink. To wear. To capture. And to keep.
But the sun is setting.
And your grip on her chain is weakening.
She is restless, despondent, enraged, and alone.
She is tired, hungry, desperate, and lost.
At night, while you sleep, she burns. Sweats. Dreams. Twitches with unfulfilled promise. Agonizes over the magic seeping rapidly from her pores. The same magic that defined her for decades is leaving her. Slowly. Painfully.
Her body is in mourning. Her fervid core sparks and misfires, over and over and over again.
Each time is a little death. A life she didn't lead. A soul she didn't create.
If she is not creating, she is nothing.
If she is not nurturing, she is void.
If she is not under you, she is over.
This isn't what you signed up for.
Or is it?
On the map of your full life, her rebellion is a mere patch of rough terrain, but you see it as a detour. An escape. A way out.
Coward.
This is what you signed up for. When you vowed to love her. When you promised to cherish her. When you were willing to meet her halfway. In every way.
When you were formed within her very walls.
You. Owe. Her.
But it's too much for you. She's too much.
The dragon must be vanquished.
You seek council. They offer solutions. You willingly smother the flames of her metamorphosis.
You bind her wings. Muzzle her with dark potions designed to soften her scales, quiet her mind. To quench her. To slow her rite of passage until such a time as it’s convenient for you. For everyone.
That time will never come.
If you suppress her labor, she will never burn out.
She will simply smolder, and writhe, and scream in silence.
Do you want her to suffer?
No. Of course, you don't.
Release her.
Give her the boundless space she needs to finish what she's started. Give her air and water and touch and kindness and time.
Please give her time.
Let her burn.
Watch her.
Stay close to the inferno even if it terrifies you.
It will terrify you.
Share her pain in the small way you can. In the small way you promised you would when you signed up for this.
Wait.
Until the flame dies.
Wait.
Until the ashes are settled and cool to the touch.
Wait for her …
... just a little longer.
I promise you …
… she is coming.
Welcome back to Stock Fiction. The wanderlust writings of an aspiring free spirit.
I had just one item on my to-do list yesterday.
Not one to question the authority of my own box bullet directives, I “created” the thing you just read. Wasn’t sure whether to call it poetry or fiction or … something else. But it’s here now. And you read it. Thank you. 💜
If you liked it, let me know.
If you think it’s worth sharing, please do.
Until next time, keep the home fires burning.
I’ll leave the light on for you.
P.S. Special thanks to Claire L. for becoming a paid FOREVER subscriber. 💜
This is amazing
This one hit me hard, and I'm sure I'm not the only one....