a Will-full woman [poem]

Sometimes the force of my own Will scares me.
The way it bubbles up, teeming with ravenous purpose
seeking with silent demands my cooperation.
I am just Her host.
She swallows me
down
even as I try to find my footing on the fence
between letting my Will be done
and making people happy.
Why can’t I do both?
Does my iron-rod spine require the melting down of another’s heart?
Does their flesh serve no purpose but as fuel
in the fires of my own forge?
I am a gentle creature,
and I do not harm.
I try not to harm.
I harm,
far more often than I care to admit.
I am blundering toward an eventuality,
a future I see so clearly it could be mistaken for glass.
Each step is a decisive move
made by an indecisive body.
I cannot make myself move any faster,
and yet
I’m already sprinting toward my future
as if pausing for a breath would bleed the Will to live right out of me.
I am running toward Her,
toward a Will-full, wild woman
after spending years clawing my way in the wrong direction.
I am running full of fear,
mind-numbing anxiety streaking down my sweat-drenched spirit.
I am afraid of becoming a strong woman,
a Will-full woman,
a woman who does not bend, nor break.
I am afraid of losing myself
to a woman I’ve always wanted to be.