When I Say I Am

I remember how I climbed the sky

to prove the Earth could hold me.

How I became a thousand things

so no one thing could fold me.

I learned the elements by heart,

wore fire like a vow.

I called burning “transformation”

because stopping wasn’t safe—not then, not now.

I flowed because stillness asked too much.

I rose because staying hurt.

I kissed the stars to feel alive

when gravity felt like a threat.

I was water when my body burned.

I was air when breath ran thin.

I turned to ash before I knew

how to stay inside my skin.

But listen—

I am not leaving the sky.

I am choosing where to land.

The soil is no longer where I vanish.

It is where my weight is known.

The dark is not a womb for escape—

it is a place I can stay alone.

Fire doesn’t have to make me holy.

Some heat is just heat.

Some burns don’t open heaven—

they teach my body when to retreat.

And water?

It doesn’t always cleanse.

Sometimes it stays.

Sometimes it fills my ribs with ache and weight.

I don’t have to turn pain into light

to earn my place here.

I don’t have to rise, evaporate,

or disappear to be clear.

I come back into the tree—

not the myth, but the grain.

The slow ringed years.

The patience of rain.

I let my gut set rhythm.

I let my weight teach pace.

I let love be something I digest,

not something I chase.

I was wild because I had to be.

I am held because I stayed.

And now when I say I am—

nothing leaves.