The time I let my heart slip
like a butterfly, escaping the cocoon.
Stretching away from you.
Silent.
Expected by everyone else
except for me – 
that fresh creature – 
stretching my paper-thin wings.
Dancing with danger.

The time I used force
to overpower my baby
	(physically and his will).
Not to abuse
but to control
	to contain.
And I watched the reaction
in his eyes
turn to fear.

All the times when disappointment
turned to shame
in the hearts of children
	(even my own child-like heart).
Layering on, compounding
like thick tannins 
in an unbalanced wine.
Believing that you are bad
	(and not just that you did something bad).

The things we carry:
heavy burdens.
Alone.
Weighing us down.
Seeking an altar – 
a sacred space – 
to lay them down.
Releasing the guilt.

So we can fly 
again.