Exhumation

The strongest version of me

is buried under the habits

I was afraid to break.

Not dead.

Buried.

There is a difference.

She has been under there

all this time,

beneath the old coping,

the nervous explaining,

the swallowing of anger,

the making-do with crumbs

and calling it gratitude.

She has been waiting

beneath the agreements

I never should have signed

with my own silence.

Waiting beneath the fear

that if I stopped performing,

I would stop being loved.

But today

I arrive with a shovel.

Not to punish myself

for how long it took,

but to begin.

I dig through the people-pleasing.

I dig through the apology reflex.

I dig through the ancient belief

that my needs are a burden.

And there she is—

mud on her face,

fire in her eyes,

laughing a little

because of course

she was never gone.

I do not resurrect her.

I uncover her.

I wash the dirt

from her hands.

I give her back

her voice.

And when she stands,

the earth itself remembers

my name.