The Wind in a Mustang's Mane

I am not either / or.

I am all of it..

the ache, 

the hunger.

the mercy,

the flame.

I am the quiet breath before the battle 

and the scream that splits the silence

when the bland finally lands.

Soft?

Yes.

But only in the way wild things are..

then wind in a mustang's mane, 

feral on purpose,

graceful only because no one's managed

to break me yet.

I've walked through fire

and came out scented with smoke, 

not because I needed the pain..

but because it taught me

how to dance with my own demons

and not let them lead.

There are wars inside of me

that I fight daily..

to stay kind

when anger begs for blood,

to stay present

when absence is easier.

You think I'm tamed

because I do not raise my voice?

No.

My silence is the eye of the storm

that has names etched into every gust.

I am soft like the dusk...

not because I fade,

but because I know 

darkness needs light to survive.

And I am made of contradictions

that don't cancel each other..

they crown me.

I can cradle your head

and curse your name

in the same breath.

Not out of cruelty..

but because I know 

truth sometimes comes dressed in shadow

and love isn't always gentle.

Do not ask me to be one thing

I am every moment I did not die in.

I am every version of myself

I had to kill 

just to be able to say

I'm still here.

I am not your comfort.

I am not your danger.

I am the wild mercy

of something that should have shattered

but instead

became the wind.