I wasn’t enough. And not being enough is not being a woman. A woman is always enough. Her job is to be enough. And not being a woman means I don’t have you. And not having you means I’ve lost the right to breathe. My access to air. And it’s all because I wasn’t enough.
What is the definition of love if it’s not strange and unconventional?
If it’s white-washed and expected?
If the nights aren’t spent forever feeling that energy?
We we’re building something. We tore it down. It’s rubble and shattered and piles of powder where plaster used to hold walls. Walls we’d imagined the art of small children. Canvas proof of the memories made on weekends spent in the sand.
It can’t be again. And I’m not growing up. I’m a silly little girl. Fickle to believe I can live without you.
But I must. We all have to. Life has to go on. We are given this gift and it is not ours to squander.
If we don’t live, at least we survive.
I cry like a woman. I bleed like a woman. I yearn like a woman. But I wasn’t enough. And a woman is always enough.