Milk-crusted lips, feedings in the night. Me wanting sleep, them wanting me.
I feel myself emptying like my breasts in a midnight feeding.
The equation is always them over me, and sometimes that feels like death. Because I desire. I long.I take the rotten fruit, to give the unspoiled.
I embrace and I kiss in the very moments I want to crumple to the floor in a tantrum of my own.
Through the nighttime hauntings and pains of new teeth, I run to their side.
I am a l w a y s running.
I give and I give, and I break and I give.
With each wondrous miracle, the demand becomes greater, yet the supply magically refills.
As I give, I also replenish.
These years are tender and bruised and fleeting.
The demands and the work tear fiery at my skin, removing selfishness from the marrow. Ripping away everything that can be removed.
Naked, vulnerable, new.
Stripped to the bone, I am rebuilt.
More selfless. Submitting control. Losing the façade, yet never losing the real me.
The undoing hurts.
It's lonely to feel my world dismantling, but it all does come back together, and when it does, it is far more sacred.
For I am refined.
I am stronger.
I am more.