There are many women living inside me.

One folds laundry with soft hands
and dreams of sunlight on clean floors.

One wants to disappear into forests,
become moss, become silence,
become untouched by expectation.

One is furious.
Not the loud-furious kind,
the dangerous kind.
The kind that smiles while rebuilding herself alone.

One still grieves versions of life
that no longer exist anywhere, maybe in her daydreams.

One wants softness so badly
she mistakes it for weakness
and rejects it before anyone else can.

One is deeply maternal,
always counting snacks, futures, temperatures,
checking if everyone has arrived home safely.

One wants to be seen as brilliant.
Another wants to stop performing strength altogether.

And somewhere among them
is a little girl
watching all these women argue over survival.

Multiplicity is exhausting.

Aaaaah!!!!!

It is waking up with five different hearts
beating inside one ribcage.

It is carrying tenderness and ambition,
grief and sensuality,
faith and doubt,
rage and gentleness
without any of them cancelling the other out.

People always ask which version is real.

The answer is:
all of them.

Especially the contradictions.