I am like a woman in travail,
Only, it is to my Self that I am giving birth.
In the beginning, the pangs of despair and depression
Threatened to tear me apart.
But it is easier now, and quick,
As I surrender all that binds me to my former identity.
Because I will not survive the birth,
Nor do I want to.
Like the Phoenix that arises,
Newly and fully formed,
Ready for flight,
From the ashes of its own funeral pyre
Am I coming forth,
Letting go of who I thought I was
As I am born anew.
Will there be anything of my former self retained?
A precious little.
Really only the parts of me that have always been my Truth.
But so must I allow Her to be,
So will I keep working to bring Her forth,
For, in truth, to be other than what She is
Is a form of death for me.
So, then, will I really die giving birth?
Or will I be resurrected?
Soon, though, will I rise from my travail
To gaze upon my reflection
Then to face my Self anew.