If I wait for you to define me,
my path, my values, my deep movements
of soul and sparkling insight,
I wait for death by a thousand misunderstandings,
a million subtle rejections, a million times
a million negations of all that I am.
I won't give you that power over me or my remaining years.
I'll determine my own way as I seek the meandering footprints
of those who came before, quietly, doggedly, and in peace.
You knew who I was before I even had an inkling:
I was the genuine article, the real McCoy.
You sensed I would eventually blow the top off,
denial's heavy lid forever shattered at your feet.
Nevertheless, look what you took pleasure doing.
With your words you smote me, with your silences too,
your whispers in the dark, your inflated conspiracies.
Without my permission, you rode my slipstream
and came close to overthrowing
the secret kingdom of my heart.
Did you think I would cease and desist at your command?
Impotent Queen, unable to touch your own depths
or rouse your daemons, your own inner Kali,
you needed me – yes, poor me – to show you how.
Wear your projections and come out as hag.
We've waited for you to show your true mien
in flaming colour, the face you've hidden
behind an endless kaleidoscope of frozen features.
Sing your song and let me sing mine.
I never was yours to define.