Don’t ask me
to be soft
if what you mean
is small.
I was born
with the storm in me,
and I’ve only just
learned
not to flinch
when it rains.
I want the kind of love
that runs barefoot
through thunder,
that dances
with its jaw unhinged,
laughing,
bleeding,
alive.
Let me be the wind—
rough in places,
carving cliffs
and kissing leaves
in the same breath.
Let me be the thing
that cannot be caged
without losing its name.
If I love you,
I will not hold you.
I will set fire to the cage
we both outgrew
and meet you
at the edge of the dark
where wild things
go to sing.
Ryan Stone
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