Last night I dreamed of rooms—
none of them mine.
Woke up in the static hum
of free-floating fear.
She had to die
for this to live.
My mother pulled me out of myself,
wove me into her hunger—
left me starving for mine.
I used to write.
Pages poured out like breath.
Now I wait for the muse
as if she should knock first—
too passive,
too polite,
too afraid
to claim a room
of my own.
Where is my clearing?
My mind: a traffic jam
of shoulds and shame.
My body: a haunted room
I can’t get into.
I want to feed the creative
but I beg it to feed me.
I am tangled
in not knowing—
so let the unknowing
unfold itself.
Let the vessel loosen.
No effort—just breath.
No force—just space.
The garden holds my joy.
Pleasure is a doorway.
Mother never looked for me.
Never saw the sapling
straining toward light.
Now,
I let you go.
It’s my turn—
the clearing
is mine.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2025