I Don'T Want To Be Her
I don't want to do it.
I don't want to make the mistake.
I don't want to put faith in falsehood.
I don't want to plant my seeds in a man,
Tend to them, break my back, scrape my knees on gravel, water the roots with the sweat of my brow as I kneel in heartache under the summer's sun.
I don't want to do it.
I don't want to tend to a flock of seeds,
From my own being,
A flock of seeds that will never sprout,
Never see the light of day because the shadow of the man who supposedly came from my dreams cast a dark tint on my visionary labor.
I don't want to give it all, work my body to the brittle end where I can't hold my own weight up without the help of another's hand on my spine.
I don't want to train my brain to be the Mother Nature in her lonesome needed to give life to seedlings that should be resurrected by two in one.
I don't want to grind my soul into soil that will toil alone to build the vision of a luscious garden that will never see the monstrous skies.
I don't want to do it.
Don't let me be that woman.
Don't let my work be fruitless.
Don't treat me like I'm second best.
Don't make me be that woman.
Cross me.
Don't think I'm too scared to destroy what I built.
Love me.
Don't think I won't know the difference.
Keep me.
Don't think I won't ever give you up.
Revive me.
Don't think I can't live without you.
Need me,
Like I need you.
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