he asks me, “where did you come from?”
as if he cannot believe I stand before him,
some version of a dream he once had
about a woman he would one day love.
like I am an apparition, suddenly appeared,
as if it’s the first day of my life — or maybe his.

I tell him, “I crawled from the pits of hell,”
with a smile, like it’s a cute joke,
but there’s truth laced in the teasing.
because I was forged in fire so hot
it melted the joy from my heart
and choked the breath from my lungs.

I did claw my way out of despair.
and though I’ve dusted off my shoulders,
there’s still dirt buried under my nails.
I am the blacksmith of my own steel,
molded into a blade sharp enough
to cut throats —
or to slice fruit from the tree
and feed you with gentle hands.

and maybe that’s why he looks at me in awe
afraid that i will dissipate as quickly as i appeared