Seared onto the soles of my feet by the coals
burning for eons, the sins of my great-grandmothers 
remind me with the aching that I am not the first,
nor shall I be the last to bear my witness.

Some say we inherit our sin.
Some claim we each start fresh,
but all I know as I dig my toes 
into the clay halfway up this mountain
is that I carry what is mine, what was theirs:
spiraling salacious thoughts exploding 
across neurotransmitters, blasting 
on all cylinders that will not let me rest
until I reach the peak ahead.

They were once condemned as blasphemers
for having too many thoughts. I count myself
among the fortunate, since the flames only 
licked my feet, did not consume my body alive.

I crossed those flaming coals to prove 
something to myself, not for anyone else.
To allow the pain to teach me, 
guide me, mold me into the shape 
of a woman I could grow to admire
as I ascend into the human being 
I am becoming, each aching step at a time.