It is not that I cannot love again,
that I do not dream of being
once more swarmed by the
deafening, strangling, muting
that is the heart's beating
on the door of vulnerability.
It is merely that I have fallen ever so
precariously, accidentally, sublimely
in love with myself.
Narcissistic, smug, vain?
I look away from these accusations,
but not in shame.
For I have built a home
within my very bones
and if you dare to wish to enter
then you must be faced to brave
the darkest corners of my winter.
Never shall I forget
how cold it happens to get
when this season brings anew
more days that swallow me whole,
but I also shall remember
that it is I who warms the embers
and lights my soul a-fire once more.