i am trying not to force things,
to let them just unfold.
but it’s tricky
because there is a sense
that pulsates through my veins,
and a restlessness that
has always hummed its way
through the centre of my heart.
but i am trying not to force things,
because it’s better for the breath
that catches in the back of my throat
when i push.
because it’s better for the skin
that twists around my bones
when i wrap myself in layers of rigidity
cultivated by way of letting the opinions of others
carve hollows into the depths of my belly, my chest.
because these eyelids have grown heavy
and there’s an unyielding whisper in my ear that says,
rest. rest. rest.