The past is a tempestuous companion.

A companion whose voice grinds in the background.

A companion whose tension riddles the present.

A companion who whispers “failure,” over and over.

And yet,

I remember the small ways I spoke for myself, I remember the small ways I wept for myself, I remember the small ways I chose myself, quietly, for years.

I could record my history with heartburn, it would be easy, and true.

I could record my history with ache, the stomach crunching kind.

I could record my history on the rachis of a feather, the scrawl so small, so light, that not even the wind feels burdened as it sweeps the feather into an orange sky.