This quivering that holds me captive,
this trembling I cannot fight.
I am torn between life and learning,
seeking life but wanting to learn,
yet still wanting something of my very own.
To wake in my own space,
to feel the freedom that comes
when I come home to my home.
To know I can bring you with me,
never having to worry about discovery.
To look upon the rooms harbored
in my four walls and knowing they are mine.
To never have to wake up to a mother’s call,
unless it is by phone.
To never do another thing for anyone else
but for me.
To love for me,
to make love for me.
To face each day for me.
I am not selfish
for I have thought of others most of my life.
Four years old I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
for my father who lay upon the couch,
too lazy to do it himself.
I may not have brought in the paychecks
but I thought of my father,
my mother who lived not with us.
My mother who may have loved me
but who was forced to have me and let me know it.
This anger at this past of mine boils reckless under the surface,
the heat steadily rising until the right moment
when I can tell them off and the top blows,
leaving my soul cleansed and my heart free.
My confidence in myself rises as this temperature does.
I am steadily approaching that day
when freedom will be mine.