A Collection of Days

Some days, I am the queen of a lost country, full of strength and purpose. If the stars have not yet perfectly aligned, I am patient. I am wise, and subtle, and I understand the idle thoughts of kings, and the patterns of tides, and the vagaries of office politics. Some days, the misbegotten twists of poorly written and format impaired manuscripts untangle themselves in paths of light and meaning before my eyes, and everything I do is right. Traffic lights change as I approach, and I brim with good advice, and encouragement, and the love of stray dogs and lunatics. I am a good friend, a patient mother, a calm space in the storm. I am a flame.

And some days, I am none of these things. Some days, the things I believe about myself blow away in a cold wind and I find myself avoiding strangers' sight. I ask my friends: Tell me I'm not fat, or if I am that I'm still beautiful. Tell me that the things I believe about my own competence, worthiness, and promise are true, or if they are not that they are just over the horizon. Tell me that you love me; tell me that I'm not alone.

On these days, I wear sequins and rags, feathers and bones and warriors' paint. I stake my battered flag on a hill, and wait for the stinking blur of futility and regret and fear to rage past in glimpses of filthy fur and the rake of claws. Fuck them. Fuck them all. I may be only the queen of this mud-churned hill, but I'm not ready to lay down in the dirt yet.