​​I'd like to dance. I'd like to cook if I could. 

I'd like to sings songs out loud instead of under my breath  

I'd like to buy that new top, but I wouldn't look good so maybe not. 

I'd like to talk about – never mind you wouldn't get it.  

Er, this isn't what I meant. Okay. 

I'd like to start again. 

 

I'd like to write a list of all the things I cannot have. 

I'd like them served to me like when my mother used to bring home dinner: 

unasked, but understood because I realized I was hungry. 

 

I'd like permission from myself to be soft. 

I'd like to know the joys of being me with all the dark corners. 

Like the lifting of an old veil and finding a dusty mirror in the attic, 

And seeing my reflection there. 

 

I'd like permission from the world to be hard. 

I'd like to weep for all the things I had growing up and riot for all the things I didn't. 

I'd like to be angry in ways that don't involve tears or apologizing. 

I'd like to hear the toils of my heart like a bell on Sunday morning, 

and hear them again and again. 

 

I'd like to say yes with my eyes closed,  

with my shoulders high and lips trembling like I stand at the altar. 

I'd like to be a promise and have my peace forever held. 

I'd like nothing at all, no life where nothing is asked of me. 

I'd like that. But, 

I'd like to not hear that resounding no ringing in the air. 

I'd like to not know that it came from my own throat. 

I'd like to know why, but I know why. 

I can't voice the words. 

 

I'd like to start again,  

But I won't.