More?

That day on the beach, the sun burning into the back of my neck, You said to me, 

“I dare you to say ‘I want more.’ ” 

Am I ready to say it?
Am I ready to mean it?

What have I done with what you’ve given me that I could dare ask for more? 

Ungrateful or unhopeful? 

Why does it have to be an “un”?

What about the thanks that you take and make more than enough? Am I allowed to be dissatisfied? Discontent? 

If the darkness shall be the light and the stillness the dancing then when?

It’s still. And it’s quiet.

All questions.

Searching seeking grasping. 

Begging for a drop of the confidence I used to wield. Begging for freedom from the expectations I’ve chained myself to. From the lies that tell me if I don’t perform. If I don’t persevere. I am nothing. 

I am not allowed to ask for more.

Or for help. 

You say to me, “I will restore your joy.”

When? Where? 

Clutching grasping gripping. 

I strangle these lies. Choke them to death. 

When all you’re asking is for me to peel back my sticky fingers, one at a time, and let these lies go free. 

You dare me to say “I want more.”

I look down at my knuckles, clenched white, and, unbreathing, I beg you for the grace of self-preservation to say, 
I want more. 

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