Custody

In the courtroom of my consciousness,

the past and future sat across a cedar table,

two versions of me

suited in time,

ready to negotiate the fine print of my becoming.

Melanie,

the keeper of childhood lullabies and

unspoken rage,

opened her folder of memories—

creased edges,

tear-stained testimony,

and a paperclip holding pieces of a girl

who always tried too hard to be soft.

“I won't sign away everything,” she said,

voice trembling like it used to in school hallways.

“You don’t get to erase me.”

“I’m not here to erase,” Ariel replied,

her tone both velvet and steel.

“I’m here to evolve.”

Melanie slid photos across the table—

mama’s laugh in the kitchen,

nights under stars whispering poems to the sky,

hands held, hearts broken,

the sacred echoes of first love and first loss.

“These stay,” she said.

“My creativity. My kind heart.

My people. My love for the ones who held me when I couldn't stand.”

Ariel nodded.

“Non-negotiable. These are your masterpieces.

They are the soil I’m planting in.”

But then came the harder pages.

The thick paragraphs of self-doubt,

the clauses of code-switching for survival,

the long-winded testimonies of fear—

of failure, of success, of taking up space.

“These must be retired,” Ariel declared,

sliding her revisions forward.

“I offer in their place:

Audacity.

Clarity.

Purpose.

The right to bloom without apology.”

Melanie looked away,

her eyes glassy with grief and relief.

“And how will you protect her?” she asked.

“The soft girl inside.

The one who writes poems when no one’s watching?”

Ariel leaned forward, hand over her heart.

“She comes with me,” she said.

“Front row seat.

But this time, she rides free.

No shame. No shadows.”

The courtroom fell quiet,

a stillness blooming in the space where fear used to echo.

Melanie inhaled,

one last time as the guardian of yesterday.

Then she reached across the table

and shook Ariel’s hand—

firm, final, and full of grace.

Both women stood.

One walking out of memory.

One walking into destiny.

The verdict was transformation.

The case, now closed.

And the soul?

Still hers.

But finally free.

Ariel A. Phoenix (2025)