My heart has grown docile, less inclined
to thrash about and strain at the leash.
Maybe that’s the way it goes: we come
into the world like lava, we burn and blaze
and flow, then cool into something solid—
an identity? No, I don’t believe that,
my friend. Too many adults tried to sell me
a story about who I would become, and how.
But life is hard, a shadow passing through
the briefest light, a pulsing in the body
we’d have to destroy to touch. To grow
into myself, I've had to refuse to exchange
purpose for joy—what kind of goal is felicity
amidst such suffering? And yet, here you are,
my love: a presence, a mind, a body I hold
close and still without need to sacrifice a thing.
What One Gives Up
