I prevailed, for want of gentle gesture, patient pause, 

dug my grave in shallow shores,

lived by your whim, disguised as desire,

dined in grandeur, in spades, on vanity.

From the gust of your storms, I claimed the eye,

once all wounds bled out, all limbs sliced senseless.

Let the shelter that once bound me, contain me.

Let those who doubt me wage a small war.

I have waded the waters that drowned me,

worn the rags torn from my grasp,

risen above the frostline, eyes bright as beacons, 

drunken every drop of defeat.

I've allowed strangers inside my empty rooms, 

surrendered my voice in exchange for rules,

reduced my song to silence.

I no longer belong to you.

What shall I say of what remains? The hallowed halls of my heart.

The wreckage of those boats, the burning of that bridge.

Once your filth is swept from my entry,

My threshold remains unmarked.

Dancer by training, teacher by trade, writer on a whim. Look for Erika MacNeil's work with Neon and Smoke, Archived Press and Sky Island Journal.