Through your soul

It is harder to refuse

the self,

that quiet voice

whispering, hey no.

When the knowing arrives,

it settles in, a dust mote

in the sunbeam,

and saying no

becomes a complex knot.

I try to frame it

in another term,

a gentle word

to soften the edges of this trial.

For the self, this oil

of being, this unction,

it needs no tin can

to hold its shimmer.

It is already here,

within the hollows of the breastbone.

How can I say, know once

that it is no,

when the truth is already wearing

my own skin?

This feeling,

this deep inner shift,

I say I hate this

because it demands a turning,

a path less worn.

But the trying,

the honest reaching out

to what feels untrue,

that is the real burden.

To look another in the eye,

and offer a polished,

well-rehearsed untruth,

when the spirit inside

is already shouting, yes.

It is a peculiar kind of struggle,

this internal wrestling match,

where the opponent

wears the same face

as the desired victor.

To be so close

to the source,

to feel the warmth

of authentic living,

and yet, to pause,

to build a small wall

of polite deflection.

I examine the words I use,

each syllable weighed

as if it were a heavy stone,

searching for the one

that won't crack the surface.

But the surface is already thin,

worn translucent by constant use.

This heart,

it doesn't need external props,

no shining armor,

no borrowed strength.

It simply needs

the quiet permission

to be what it has already become.

To say no to the expected narrative,

that is the hardest refusal.

It asks for a kind of nakedness,

a standing in the breeze

without apology for one's shape.

And so I stand,

feeling the resistance melt,

the tin can forgotten,

the oil spreading freely.

It is easier, finally,

to just let the knowing shine through,

a simple, unadorned hey.

No more trying to confuse the light.