white wash

I think sometimes about who I am choosing, no, who I have chosen to be.
how or when or if
that was a choice. Like, maybe I took a wrong turn

maybe

I should have been a poet.
I should have explored what I was
already
good at.

Fiction just seems at times like a bad marriage in my life. Something I chose without knowing the true consequences and the truth.

An abusive husband who never says
I Love You
who always says
You’re no Good. No Good.
No.
Good.

And then of course, sometimes, but not most times, it is good.
And it feels as if it is right and all the satisfaction of getting some good words on paper
is worth
the worth of all the doubt.

If I spent twice as much time in love
and half
as much time in tears
then I would have it all figured out

or not.

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