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thirty.

she was gone by the time i was four,
then there were others,
that came and said, i will be your mother
but they forgot me when they put
their mother-daughter outings on the calendar.
almost good enough, but not quite enough
to get an invitation to the beach
or the shopping or coffee to talk about the day.
good enough for advice, but
not quite good enough for time.
this should have faded by now,
this feeling of being forgotten,
you’d think by thirty you’d be finished”
with childish things like belonging
and motherly love and girls nights.
but here i am, writing some shitty poem
about what it feels like to see your
sister and her mother travel to the beach
and share jokes and shopping and time,
while you sit on a couch, wishing you had a mother.
she was gone by the time i was four.

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candles.

don’t bother to sew yourself shut,
just stand there, hold yourself open
let them see your beating heart
vulnerable doesn’t mean broken.

change the narrative of sorrow
as it turns out, happiness is something
that you can borrow.
you can share it.

like a candle and a flame,
your light doesn’t need to be extinguished
share it, no shame.
you’re beautiful even when you’re bleeding.

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as is.

it’s the strangest thing,
how i find myself loving you.
i haven’t told you – yet
but the words stay on the tip of my tongue
waiting.
dangerously close,
to spilling over and out
and through all the spaces
you’ve begun to fill.
i have no expectations,
i don’t need you to love me back,
i don’t need you to say the words,
to reciprocate –
of course, it’s beautiful if you do,
but i am strangely satisfied,
with loving you,
as is.
perhaps that is how love is meant to be.
i love you.
simply.
i’m still learning you,
but i love you all the same.