The hardest part of living is accepting your defeats
recognizing your accomplishments, taking care of a plant.
I am bad at all of the easy things and good at the hard shit.
I can take so much pain, you would think I was a punching bag.
I am made up of being a woman.
I am pure femininity. I know no other way to be
or live than by these thoughts and words.
It is not easy to step into the beauty and continuously fight off
the weeds that try to break through the soil.
I try to make it work. Sometimes I am the only one left
at three a.m looking around for the earth I was born in.
Every day changes me. Every love kills me. I loved you
with thirty years of need. I admit that I need you
and I am not that fine with driving on a highway for thirty minutes straight.
I say I’m sorry so often you’d think I made a thousand mistakes a day.
I am so weak and vulnerable at human frailty.
It seems that vulnerability is a weakness now
but it’s how I live
with the words under my blouse
And my mom calls me and I stop everything
to pick up the phone
because I worry that one day
the phone will stop ringing.
What am I cooking? Where am I?
How did I sleep?
It’s hard to live with death
constantly on your mind,
it’s easy to write it
and frame it
sell it to the highest bidder.
I stopped waiting for people to apologize
pointless to be waiting on a full moon
when you know it passed.
My heart keeps cracking, freezing
it follows the arms of the clock
listening to philosophers
free in its spirit
because no matter what faces me
I never give up on the ones I love.