To Be

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.