I am that woman

I am not that woman,
the one you see
at kitty parties
with painted nails and lips,
whispering sweet somethings
in passing,
while stepping on stilettos
on the surface of things.

I am not that woman,
who plays every role
to perfection -
a perfect wife,
a perfect mother,
a perfect daughter,
a perfect sister,
a perfect friend
or a perfect lover,
a pretty cut-glass bowl
sitting inside a glass cupboard,
wowing passers by.

I am not that woman,
who will shape her wings
to fit through windows,
not because
those don't become her,
but because she is meant
to fly into an uninhibited sky.

I am not that woman.

I am that woman,
the one who slips
through your fingers
like water,
the one who breathes fire
into herself and out,
cutting through the dross,
seeking not you, but herself,
perfecting herself
for her own sake.

I am that woman,
the one you sometimes
don't want by your side,
who pushes you
to your limits,
as she pushes through hers,
breaking every mold cast
for what cannot stay
but flow.

I am that woman,
who will stand by you
through every heartache,
loving you fiercely
for all that you are
and could be,
with a devotion
that grows roots
not in you,
but in her own self.

I am that woman,
who chases her dreams
like a child catching butterflies,
with eyes
that wander happily
both into the blazing sun
and those fleeting fireflies.

I am that woman,
who loves
the dripping magic of rain,
drenching herself to her bones,
dancing in the freedom
that comes
from washing away
all those many coloured skins.

I am that woman,
who listens intently
to the lingering howl
of wolves in the forest
calling out to her,
to be who she was meant to be,
not who you thought
she was or should be.

I am that woman,
and I ask you
not to love me,
but to look
for that woman
who loves you,
in the wild forests
of your own dark self.