Do not speak my name amongst my enemies,
lest it drip from others lips with vitriol.
Intention is everything.
I do not intend to feel invisible,
To remain a nameless face in a room,
To sit quietly in the kitchen feeling echoes of their laughter in my bones, yet here I am the unspoken joke.
Am I safest as a ghost? Cleaning plates and eating leftovers
after the party has ended?
Cleaning up their mess, your mess, leaving my mess for later?
As my body rots and decays, asking why I never choose myself,
why I pursue love and affection from those who wish me harm?
My body demands an answer I cannot provide.
I am a ravenous being in a constant pursuit of acceptance, acknowledgment. Screaming, “Notice me!” “Love me!”
"Aren’t I good?” "Aren’t I pretty?”
I was born of women who healed, whom were balms,
ails, champions of goodness, and light.
I was born of women who loved deeply
in a world that never loved them back.
The farther I ran from this legacy,
the more it consumed me.
My love for you consumes me, guides me, empowers me.
My love for you destroys me, tortures me, til I forget… me.
Now I realize,  breaking this generational curse isn’t about whom I choose.
It’s about choosing myself.
Am I too late?