You were a person, you lived, and
you tried to avoid pain. But pain is entangled in life, and
can’t be extracted. Still–
like every human being, you tried.

You were a woman, deified and dismissed, both angel
and monster, always through a lens, always
compelled to be beautiful.
Beautiful to whom?

You were a mother. Your heart was split open
like a pomegranate– sacrificed,
though it never felt like a sacrifice.

You were a writer (possibly)
every tender meat hook of an image on the page,
reality poured through the sieve,
and so little made it through in the end.

You are tired.
No longer care to continue unpacking
mysteries, rising and falling with the karmic wheel—
up and down, the lesson never learned.
This page, too, will be turned.

– Kristen Jackson