full like the sweetest mango
my dad gave me years ago.
Full like the lines which run
above our heads on foggy nights,
electricity rushing uncontrollably.
Full where the heart is accustomed
to its daily routine of nurturing
the empty parts of me
that are half full and half empty.
I do not want you to be my solution,
my missing piece, my completion, or
the reason why I don’t cry anymore.
I want to be full the way my legs are
tucked between the sheets of my bed:
Complete comfortability in and around
Love myself better than anyone could
Love myself so that loving you and
you loving me could be easy like
making lemonade with bitter sweet lemons.