Shhhhh.

Sometimes, they want
me to yell. Cry out.
Demand to see where
my power lives.
But those who scream at
others will never understand
how my power builds
in stillness
from quiet
from small,
mighty moments
tucked away in mason jars
under my bed like treasure –
fire-sparks, bottled lightening.

I’ll show them to you in the
dark where it is safe,
if you whisper softly.

It calls to me, the quiet.
But, the calling
can feel like screaming.
Copper kettles of slowly boiling
nudges that rise steam to the
breaking point of a whistle,
reminding me that I can
decorate the walls of a home
within myself, magic
wands on my skin:
the only way
others will feel safe there.
In the hidden rooms
and hallways of my
blue pumping heart
the stillness is a blanket
I can offer you,
say come here, rest.

We guard the electricity
in the grip of my hand
like a pet – protect and feed;
Feel heat in my fingers
as they touch yours,
pour this power into
new palms before we pray.

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