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

bra, panties.

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

warming up

pounding

it follows the arms of the clock

incessantly

listening to philosophers

free in its spirit

because no matter what faces me

I never give up on the ones I love.