I’m allowed to feel bad for myself, aren’t I?
To rummage in the wet of all that lies
beneath me.
To not possess the strength it takes to hold the eyes of a sad woman.

Broken isn’t it – more like…

It’s a strange sensation the moment you find out
that the very thing you are outgrowing
is yourself.

The hair I shed on lovers sheets is me leaving parts
behind that no longer serve me.
Their follow-up texts always seem to mention it,
as if they had never seen death served atop a pillow,
like mints in a hotel bedroom.
Consider it a gift, I say.
A memory of a woman who has already outgrown you.

It’s days like these,
the one’s where I feel so bad about everything,
that the only thing left to do
is cry.

I am not,
as a good release of the soul’s excess
is a remedy in itself.

But becoming is hard.
It’s getting it inside after not having it for so long hard.
The latter would be presumed pleasurable
as becoming would eventually be too.

Me, the sage, the one who looks for the good in people
just as the discriminated look for justice.
That’s me – undeniably considerate to those who deserve it
and those who do not;

Becoming are the clamminess of my palms
that exist to calm seasonal drought.
Becoming are the thoughts I wish to scream
to those who reject my obeying heart.
Becoming is a vessel
learning when silence shields the light of fire.
Becoming is bathing in the core of imperfection
and calling it growth

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