There is too much. Then not enough.
God forbid they leave you like this.
You are still trying to figure out how to use it — this life someone gave to you, that you have cursed as your own when you should’ve held it close. You were younger then; didn’t know how quickly it would go — yards and yards of it, like an unraveling sweater string.
Write your poems. Feel them deep, but let them go. Give them away — somebody else always needs to hear it. Even when it feels trite or tired, as long as it’s true. This is what you do — your hands, your fingers, your empty palms. This is what you do:
Even when pain threatens, or rolls in like dark clouds. You have weathered. Grown strong. You keep going on. You are older now. You know how quick it goes. You know enough to love yourself, even when it feels trite or tired, or like a chore — this is what you do —
you are what is true.