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.
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.”
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.