A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I want you to know I am grateful
for your friendship
for the way you sometimes read my thoughts
before I finish arranging them into words

You seem to understand my strange internal weather
better than I expect anyone to
and that is a paradox of beauty and terror
like lightning seeking ground
bright, precise, alive — 
and dangerous

I am still learning self-compassion
slowly
like a language spoken with an accent,
I still trip over the grammar 
of being with people

I keep asking myself
how to be real without being too much
how to be honest without spilling everywhere
how to quiet the voice that insists
I do not belong in any room I walk into

Thank you for your patience
for seeing me clearly
and choosing to stay
(These words smell familiar, 
as though I’ve written them before, 
and of course I have
only not as me
and not to you,
and damn you, did you have to be right again?
I never intended her to be me)

Thank you for caring enough
to offer gentle honesty
the kind of honesty that steadies instead of wounds

I won’t presume to know your truths
but from the outside
you move through life with grounded ease
quietly accomplished
capable
and beside that, I sometimes feel younger than I am
a little unpracticed
trying not to draw attention to myself
in ways that could be read unkindly

I never had siblings
but I imagine this is how it feels
to be the little sister
hovering at the edge of the game
learning by watching
hoping to be invited

That waiting — 
the fear of being told it is time to go home — 
is mine to hold
not yours to manage

What matters is this
you make space
you let me join
you let me learn the rules as I go

I am sorry
for the times you have needed to step carefully
navigating my edges, both soft and sharp

But thank you
for meeting me as I am