a letter to the sunflower collector

i have become well-acquainted, unwillingly, 
with the kind of sadness
that makes you catch your breath.
so sudden and sharp that it boils over
spilling onto cheeks, 
onto notebook pages, 
onto kitchen counters, 
onto sheets where i turn sleeplessly.
sometimes there’s a reason for this
a problem i can solve
but the worst of it
are the nights when the ache
is baseless
comes from everywhere and nowhere
at once.
i want to release myself from comparison
i want to be able to spend peaceful nights alone
i want to turn away from the heavy chest, the listless limbs
that can consume me even on sunny days.
but most of all
i want to know myself
the happy, capable, creative woman
who is good enough to be my own company 
when i’m lonely.
but some days she is not with me.
some days
it’s got be enough
to know that she exists - she’s just stepped away.
and sooner or later
she’ll burst through the door
with the sunflowers she’s been out collecting
with the promises of better days
i’d wished for all this time.

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