I always say there are things
that one keeps, thinking that time
is a bottomless closet.
But of course it isn't.
The truth is, it fills up.
With dust,
that is, excuses,
with that feeling of "I'll see later"
that never sees anything.
But there, behind everything,
even if you don't look at it,
even if you don't touch it,
it keeps growing.
It swells like badly baked bread
and suddenly it's all the oven.
The truth is, one says that
tomorrow with more calm,
when I have energy,
when it doesn't hurt so much,
but the truth is, there's no better time than the uncomfortable one.
because waiting for it not to hurt
is like waiting for a thorn to turn into a petal.
and it won't happen.
The body knows it.
It hurts in strange places.
Sleep becomes crooked.
Conversations cut themselves off
because something inside doesn't want to hide anymore.
And yes, it's hard.
Yes, it's scary.
But if you drag it out,
it only sticks harder to the bones.
Sometimes what weighs you down today
won't let you move tomorrow.
That's why, even if you're half broken,
even if you don't know how,
do it.
Say what burns,
get out of where it's tight,
break what's suffocating.
Obviously, not because you're ready,
it's because continuing without doing it
is worse than doing it wrong.
There's no perfect poem to say this.
No exact moment.
No alignment of things.
Just this second
where something tells you that enough is enough.
And that's
all you need. That's what I need.