After the

Floodwater Leaves​

​

My mother loved people
like someone preparing sandbags
before a storm.

Everything she owned
became someone else's survival.

Gas money.
Late night phone calls.
To couch.
A meal stretched thin enough
to feed another chair at the table.

Some people call that kindness.
I watched it become erosion.

You can slowly dissolve
inside loyalty.

Not dramatic enough for movies.
Not shattered glass.
No screaming in the driveway.

Just years of saying yes
until your own reflection
starts asking permission to exist.

I inherited that habit.

I answer texts too quickly.
Apologize before conflict arrives.
Carry
long conversations after the other person
has already left them behind.

Love becomes dangerous
when your worth depends
on being needed.

​

One day I realized
I could no longer separate
my own heartbeat
from everyone asking things of me.

So I began practicing refusing
like relearning a language
stolen generations ago.

No.
I cannot save everyone.
No.
I cannot disappear politely
to make another person comfortable.

The strange thing about survival
is that it feels selfish
the first time you choose it.