There are things I keep doing
because I think they are right,
even when they are not
right for me.
I intend for a clean love
but within, keep returning
to the same loop:
I sew my open wound,
and somewhere in my garden
a snag catches the thread
and pulls it loose.
My mind gets caught there,
wanting to make room
for the unacceptable
by understanding it.
You can understand,
I tell myself.
I’ve said it before:
you can understand
how these acts come
from what was handed to someone
without their asking,
from what was handed down
to the ones before them.
But you don’t have to accept it.
You don’t have to give it your time.
You know what it costs
to lose yourself there again.
So I sew the wound,
minding this time
what matters most:
Ze.
Myself.
The ones I love
who meet me with reciprocity,
authentically,
with love
and without harm.
I carry them
in my heart.
I give myself grace.
I meet myself with patience,
knowing this may be
the hardest thing
I have ever had to learn—
actually no
To unlearn
that which was
given to me.
To openly accept such things…
That will be the hardest.
Harder than having to learn
any class of numbers
taught by a teacher
who had lost their love
for teaching.
I am grateful
I’ve been given the chance
to love me still.
To love this life still.
So that I may have the love
of learning this.