Poem for Myself

I see you. 

See how you try

to keep everything 

together. 

Someone once told you

only perfect would do.

You believed them.

But if you let it,

perfect will kill you. 

I see how sad you are,

how tired.

I see the invisible weight

bowing your shoulders. 

Sometimes the tired 

is so heavy

it becomes indistinguishable

from sad. 

But I also see your delight.

Wonder Woman 

liberated from the

laundry room,

Evenings spent

however you

choose.

Mornings spent 

with coffee and journal 

or wrapped in the arms

of one of your

lovers. 

(Each is

in love with you, 

in his own way. 

This, too, delights

you, even as it

frightens.)

I see the way

you sigh as 

you load dishes,

take out the trash,

walk the dog.

The way you 

torture yourself with

should

ought

if only.

But I also see 

the way

you do not miss 

your old life.

You’ve been through

so much. 

It’s okay

that you’re tired and sad. 

It’s okay

that you’re delighted

and scared. 

You aren’t perfect,

never were. 

That’s okay, too.