A short poem about being a plant mom.
Tag: MicroPoems
Enneagram 2
The broken and healed parts of me meet where I help others.
Feels
My feelings have whole lives I’ve never let them live out.
Pro-Life
I am more incinerator than incubator.
Forgive
Forgiveness is a verb
done at a high resistance.
Why I can’t stop writing about the same things
My hurt just wants to be heard.
Bias
When my eyes get angry,
they are blind to everything but another’s weaknesses.
This is never more true than when I look in a mirror.
In Praise of the Women in my Life
I replaced the words in my prayers from something someone else wrote
to the names of all the women who built me.
It felt holier that way.
Probs
I wish I were less guarded,
but I’ve never been wanted after
I show someone the color of my soul.
Massage
I didn’t have to say a word.
My back betrayed my silence–
with one touch, they felt everything I’d carried.
Suddenly, with another set of hands,
it wasn’t as heavy anymore.
