I Owe Myself Joy

I owe myself

something soft

that doesn't come with apology.

Not the kind of happy

that waits on someone else's decision.

Not the maybe love

or the almost intimacy

or the half kept promises

tied in waxed thread and excuses.

I owe myself mornings

where the air doesn't choke me.

Evening without pacing.

A life that feels like mine..

earned in spit, sweat, 

and scars I don't hide anymore.

Let the world think I'm hard.

Let them whisper that I'm too much.

I'm not here to palatable.

I'm here to be free. 

I've broken myself

into enough shapes

for people who never learned how to hold things.

Now?

Now I only shape myself

for the warmth I carry,

for the cracked laughter I still believe in,

for the still moments that don't ask me to explain

why I stayed so long

where I was never invited to breathe fully.

If someone wants in..

they'd better bring matches,

not  kindling. 

Strike hard.

Lead like fire,

not smoke.

I'm done lighting torches

for people who shiver

and blame the wind.

We'll burn a path if we must.

Worn down to bone and softness,

to something wild and alive

and not built

from someone else's blueprint.

And if no one comes?

So be it.

I'll walk it anyway.

Barefoot.

Unbothered.

Brighter that I've ever been.

Because I owe me this.

And I don't miss what I outgrew

just because it once called itself love.