my mom presses her fingertips to her eyelids,
as though helping them carry the weight
of always having to be patient.
she whispers,
“why was I given such difficult, such picky daughters?”
I don’t know how to tell her
that she is lucky to have daughters who care more about their happiness
than being wives.
daughters who care more about love
than security.
daughters who understand they are not life vests,
(not made to save any man)—
they are the ocean,
immense and deep and lovely,
worthy of drowning in.
I DON’T MEAN TO UPSET YOU, MOM, BUT I THINK I’M ENOUGH, new poetry by Ayah Elbeyali.
(via thefemlitmag)
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