The Choice to Carry On

 

What I would give to be a mother with a good amount of money.

My future daughter’s my reason for going on.

I’d mix all my love in a bowl, bake, and sell it.

Got pricks from needles on my arm for her.

If her name changes, will she change too? 

The flower wouldn’t have any meaning anymore.

I’m the night of a bright summer.

I grow older, and I feel who I used to be detach like a bandaid

and with a smile, I’m peaceful but sad.

I told myself that my friends built a home and left me out.

But really, they made me a window

wide open whenever I was ready.

I’m sorry for being gone.

I’m sorry for loving too much.

Alongside my plan for giving up, I had other plans

for events and things that excited me.

This confused my parents.

I have a lot of audacity to be longing when I’m lucky. 

And not say “thank you” when I am.

There’s a lot of purple in the things I didn’t see a point in

the feeling you get when you hang upside down and all the blood rushes to your head

enough to feel your heart outside of your chest. 

Who I am, even who I instinctually am, I choose her. 

This poem is a choice. 

I’ve got one eye on the blade

and the other on the page.

I keep on moving by.