Frog in My Throat, Paint on My Hands

 There’s a frog in my throat,

a stone lodged in silence—

it croaks at the edges of words

I cannot speak.

The weight of it presses

like wet wool on my chest,

a gray hush that smothers

every spark before it can ignite.

Yet my fingers itch for colors,

my veins buzz with lines unsaid.

Canvas calls me like an open wound,

paper like a confessional—

and even as the fog presses down,

I bleed shapes and shadows,

whispers and screams,

from the cracks depression leaves behind.

Art becomes the mouth I cannot open,

the lungs that exhale when I am breathless.

The heaviness may drown my tongue,

but it cannot drown the ink.

Every brushstroke, every syllable

is both an anchor and a wing—

reminding me I am tethered,

reminding me I can still rise.

The frog may sit stubborn in my throat,

but my hands, my heart, my vision

sing louder than it ever could.

Through the ache,

I create.

Through the silence,

I roar.

It’s time to let me go

 

I don’t want to be a space holder,

a shadow in the corner of your story.

I am a queen,

a goddess draped in firelight,

and I deserve to be seen as such.

You have done nothing wrong.

The years we’ve shared—

five long seasons of nature and travel,

of rivers and roads,

of skies unfolding above us—

I hold them tenderly,

pressed between the pages of my heart.

I hope you carry my love

like I carry yours.

But it’s time to let me go.

I cannot be a sugar mama,

a placeholder,

a comfort when no one else is near.

I am seeking something lasting,

a lifetime woven in passion and compassion,

a love that wants me

as much as I want it.

I don’t have as much time as you—

a few good years left,

and I will not spend them

in the waiting room of someone else’s life.

It hurts my heart,

tears out my gut,

just to say these words:

But it’s time to let me go.

Being poly has been a gift,

and yet a wound—

for my desire burns too bright for you,

too much for your comfort.

You push me away daily,

while she is cradled

in your arms through the night.

You hold her close,

while I am sent from the room

to sleep alone.

You love her with fire,

numerous times each day.

With me, a flicker once a week—

and even then,

it feels like duty,

not desire.

Still, I do not deny your love.

I know it is there,

quiet, enduring,

a corner of your heart

with my name carved in it.

But passion is absent,

and without it,

I wither.

I love you,

and I always will.

But what I seek is precise,

and it will take me time to find.

I need the space to search,

to claim the devotion

that matches the fire within me.

So let me go,

with gratitude for what we’ve shared,

with respect for what we’ve built,

with sorrow for what we could not hold.

Let me go,

because I am a queen,

a goddess,

and I cannot stay

in the silence of being unseen.

Hysteria

Hysteria…

They called it madness,

They called it sin.

A husband’s word was iron,

An asylum her coffin.

She cried in silence, locked away,

For daring to feel, for daring to say.

Her body unloved, her mind denied,

Her spirit broken—yet never died.

If a woman wept, they said she was insane,

Locked her in shadows, dismissed her pain.

Didn’t learn her body, didn’t learn her fire,

Left her cold in a marriage, in a funeral pyre.

Neglect from the times, neglect from the bed,

Every plea for touch—they called it in her head.

A “cure” was an orgasm, stripped of its name,

As long as no man was there—it wasn’t the same.

Hysteria!

They chained our voices, burned our flame.

Hysteria!

A prison built on fear and shame.

But we rise from the silence, we break through the lies,

No longer discarded—our fire survives.

The second machine, born of the spark,

Served women abandoned, left in the dark.

Vibrations disguised as a doctor’s cure,

For human hunger they could not endure.

It wasn’t his fault, it was the age,

But silence and shame kept us in a cage.

Sex was his right, but not her need,

Our passion erased, our voices deceived.

Hysteria… hysteria…

(do you hear them cry?)

(do you hear them burn?)

How many centuries—before we learn?

WE WERE NEVER INSANE!

IT WAS YOU!

YOUR FEAR! YOUR CHAINS!

YOU LOCKED US AWAY—

BUT WE STILL REMAIN!

Hysteria!

The word has faded, the silence cracks.

Hysteria!

No more cages, no turning back.

Now we choose our lovers, our toys, our voice,

Now we claim our bodies—our sovereign choice!

The term barely lingers,

Its meaning erased…

But we remember the women,

Forgotten, displaced.

Hysteria… hysteria…

No longer a curse,

But a ghost in the mirror—

Reminding us first:

We are alive,

We are free,

And our fire will never

Be silenced again.