Who am I to sit in my throne and not minister my word.
She who has felt the lick of the flame and the blister of the skin; to not ensure my children never do.
I am the Solugel to their wounding and yet I contort my body back into the soap box,
instead of climbing up on to it
and studying the palm of my hand and weeping with the great beauty of my creases.

And my folds.
And saying not one word that carries anymore weight than the weight of my flesh.

In standing.

Where are the people who can hold me into myself?
Who can see what I know I am with every cell of my body.
But yet cannot lay claim to.
I have clawed, sung.
Loved myself but yet I cannot find her.

My head aches with the effort to open up to the purple of my knowledge but it alludes me.

I know what is coming but still I cross my legs.