If I told my teenage self
that one day I would sit
around the campfire
with six of the coolest kids
in school, she wouldn’t
believe me. But tonight,
if I could whisper into her ear
I would tell her to drop
whatever stories she’s telling
herself about who they are
and who she is and to question
why those stories scare her.
Because tonight, sitting
around the campfire
beneath striated clouds,
breathing in the scent of rain
I revel in how human we are,
laughing and crying and singing
along to “Love Cats.”
Perhaps it takes over thirty years
to develop a trust in gentleness,
but if I could whisper
into that girl’s feathered hair,
might she have been open sooner
to the ways we’re all the same?
It might not have changed a thing.
But even now, it feels so good
to shed my stories
the way tonight’s sky shed its clouds.
The whole world glowed then,
luminous with full moon
as if to remind me everything,
everything can shine,
Hear that, dear dark self?
Even something that’s been shrouded
for decades. Even that place
where fear felt like skin.
Even where the story
sounds like your name.