When I was young
you told me the sun
was the hero
in the story of our world:
radiating masculine power,
strong with gargantuan energy,
ablaze with tenacious intensity.

The moon, you said,
was his mistress:
gentle in her tender kiss,
gleaming with softened light,
illuminating quiet nights
with her soothing, benevolent glow
while he slept.

I believed you,
as young girls do.

But I grew up
to feel that dull silver gleam
expanding, thriving, blooming
in my veins;
and now the moonlight surges
under my resilient skin,
and starlight pools
in the palms of my hands,
and the sunlight I thought
was never meant for me
effervesces in my stomach,
building to a grand crescendo
in my throat.

I wonder why you never told me
that this colossal energy
could envelop my mind,
set my bones aflame,
and fill me with invincible vitality.
And as it threatens to explode from me
I contemplate the possibility
that you fear a body supposedly
built to shine only softly, gently, obediently,
now emanating that tenacious electricity,
you told me I could never control
so majestically.

Now I cry tears of molten gold
that set the earth on fire,
leaving nothing cold,
and my laughter dances, dazzling,
on the ocean’s frothing folds;
I am glorious, I am luminous,
I am strong and soft and brilliant.
I am larger than life,
and I have no need
for borrowed light

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