Loneliness isn't the feeling
of being empty.

It is the ache
that follows
when you try to fill
a broken vessel.

The numbness
of watching yourself
seep through the cracks,
reaching for something
that's long since
slipped away.

tell me
how to be enough
for myself.

When we chance
upon each other
years later,
you will ask me

          do you still write?

and I will answer

           of course I do.

you took my heart
with you when you left,
not my hands.

When will we learn
to lift each other up?

Forget blood -

When will we learn
that the salt of my sweat
and of your tears
tastes the same?

As perplexing as it is,
my dear,
life carries on
despite the loss.

Flowers do not suspend
their blooming
simply because they rooted
in a graveyard.

I am proud
to be a woman.
But sometimes,
I am ashamed
by the jealousy
I feel knowing that
if I were a man,
they might listen.

There is power
in dashing expectations,
shedding them like a second skin
to be discarded and forgotten.
For someone else to find it.
Try it on.
Suddenly defined by an ill-fitting ideal
they were never meant to fill.

But there is strength
in picking it up
and making something new of it.
Putting it back on,
wearing the truth proudly
when they tell you it doesn't fit.
Doesn't suit you.

When that day comes,
hand them the needle and thread.
Perhaps these expectations
don't suit them either.
Maybe it's time we asked the world
to start living up to ours.