Early morning coffee thoughts are so violent.
Unwelcome in the dawn’s quiet rage before the new day begins.
Roused from the tempest of dreams,
My mind tunes my personality to the right frequency.
The echo of the coffee machine’s early morning squeal.
These vehement brainwaves crash through, raw and untamed.
Like realising being shy was never part of my essence.
It was a trauma response.
One I’d learned, while crafted in my dance with hyenas.
Instead of running wild with the wolves.
As I stir my coffee and pour the milk,
I watch the sugar dissolve into the cream.
I then ponder if, whether in my youth:
I anchored myself to the stage,
Beneath the spotlight, costumes and characters, because it was there I discovered the fragments of myself.
The ones the world demanded I dim.
TOO LOUD. Too much! Too expressive.
…Funny how the hyenas demanded more when I performed.
Perhaps that’s why I move through life reserved,
My prop of a fine comb as I brave the braids of life’s unscripted play.
Tentative is my ongoing role, as I slowly begin to switch characters in Act Two.
Stepping out from the chrysalis of a shy, quiet girl.
No longer will I snuff out those echoes of expressive fire in this play of life?
Even if I run as a lone wolf.
All’s well that ends well, right?
