Write Me a Poem

Write me a poem.
Tell me a story
where I am no longer surviving
on the burnt edges of myself,

but living fully,
like a woman who has finally
stopped apologizing for taking up space
in her own life.

Crown me not in gold,
but in quiet.
Wrap my shoulders in a love
that does not demand performance.

Let glory arrive softly,
through mornings that feel safe
to wake inside.

I do not wish to conquer the world.
I wish to conquer the ache
that insists I must earn
the right to rest.

So I press delete
on every inherited hunger,
every voice that taught me
my worth could be measured
by exhaustion.

And in the silence left behind,
something untamed begins to grow.

There are mountains there.
Cold streams threading through stone.
Tall pines swaying like they have never once
questioned their purpose.

The earth asks nothing of me
except that I breathe deeply
and remain awhile.

I will climb when I am able.
I will rest when I am tired.
I will learn the sacred art
of belonging to my own life.

And perhaps that is the real triumph.

Not greatness.
Not perfection.
Not endless becoming.

Only this:

a nervous system no longer bracing for impact,
a heart no longer searching for the exit,
a life so filled with peace
I no longer dream of escaping it.