Celebration of the Self

Celebrate yourself, they say, mouths full of condescending confetti,
always hungry, always restless.

Every year since I left home,
my brain - you big old random thing -
feelings, actions, words,
all bend to your indomitable rule.

Just a roadside weed,
a spot of colour that marching suits may overlook,
all that weight pressing down on one polished heel that could crush a petal without notice.

Isn’t there something beautiful to appreciate here? Away from the busy paths, something cosy
and withdrawn in every unseen shelter of shadow?

Not sharp gem bright, no lustre sparkle,
but a bonfire blazing fierce.

Someone by your side in a war,
someone to make your apocalypse survival team.
Skin beaten blue and bruised until it has become armour, polished to a starshine sheen.

I am all and none of these.

To anyone who will listen:
No celebration for me, I beg,
for I am not done rebuilding yet.