I wear a veil.
It doesn’t cover my face
but it covers my chest,
protecting all the swirling galaxies that lie inside.
And I protect this veil religiously
because I know the shooting pain
of the veil ripped open, without my permission,
or of the veil forced closed,
and held shut.
So if I show you my veil,
if I let one of my galaxies flow and fly
to you, I have offered a part of myself
that I am wont to keep at bay;
it is meant to be a lantern,
to lead you back to me, if you ever need me,
or a candle you can carry when you’re unsure and afraid.
If the veil moves for you,
you are trusted, and wanted,
and so deeply, deeply loved,
and even if the motion seems small (it is a microcosm)
it takes all my energy to brush aside that titanium curtain.
I have exposed all of myself to you;
cherish the glowing galaxy
you hold now in your palm.