I do not believe
There will be anyone else
So I arrange my life knowing
I will be alone
I will have many friends
A career but no man
Who thinks I am heaven and home

No one will write songs
About my kinky curls
Or dedicate their novel
To the green of my eyes
No one will say I put
Moon and stars to shame or
Compare my lips
To the berries
Of my namesake tree

Friends offer advice
Grow your hair longer
Buy funkier frames
Not enough makeup

But I accept how I look
After 30-odd years
When I look in the mirror
I know it is me
Why can my friends
Not see who I am?
Why would I change
Just to please someone else?

Once upon a time
I journeyed that road
I know the desert
To which it leads
Bare of rivers and springs,
Trees and birds
No land of fairy tales but
Shakespearean grief.

Why can’t they see warmth
When they look at my heart?
Or the kindness and laughter
I’m willing to share?
Am I too difficult to see?
Are they too lazy to try?
Will the story truly end
With me all alone?

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