When I feel the mortification

rise up

like a vile snake,

I remember pushing the door shut.

You thought you could fix me,

and I said, "no" with my foot.

When I feel the confusion

gather in my mind

like a sudden storm,

I remember pulling away even though your romantic

idea was to pull me around a puddle.

You thought you could save me,

and I said, "no" with my whole body.

When I feel the disgust

bubble in my mouth

like a bitter medicine,

I remember holding up a hand in "stop."

You thought you could hug me in front of everyone,

and I said "no."

When doubt's voice whispers

that I failed over and over,

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 also 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.