To Choose You by Imena Wallflower
When I was young, I swore that love would never make a martyr out of me.
Love, when it came for me,
would feel like rest for my weary bones.
It would feel like
the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
But I am a product of too many sacrifices to count.
It is in my blood–
My mother doesn’t call it sacrifice, she calls it love.
I would be selfish not to agree.
So here we are,
and we both know
that loving you is harder than living in this skin.
But still I choose,
and I choose,
and I choose
I Learn, and Learn, and Learn
The first time I made coconut bread, it burned.
The second time I ate one slice for the sake of a decent follow through. It sat in the freezer for a week because I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye
The third time, I carefully pulled it from the oven and unwrapped it from its foil, with the taste of disappointment already on my tongue.
Still, I cut into it. Bit into the warm slice with a nonsensical determination,
then spit it back into my palm.
I hate coconut bread.
I hate everything I make.
But some lessons you learn, and learn, and learn,
with the same old recipe in your hand.
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