Under My Own Tent
I thought if I did enough
carried enough
stood steady long enough
…was enough.
Not too much.
Not too little.
Just enough.
Someone would finally say:
yes, this is enough.
But here I am,
with my hands empty,
and the accounting still open.
I feel it in my throat first.
That tightening.
That old reflex to explain myself
line by line,
as if clarity were a currency
that could buy me belonging.
I’ve built shelters for others.
I’ve held the poles.
I’ve stayed through weather
that wasn’t mine.
And now I’m standing
under my own tent
with no fire,
no audience,
just a wide, unoccupied heart.
I could bend.
I could soften the edge of what I see.
I could say the easier thing
and keep the circle easy.
But something in me
won’t kneel anymore.
Not in anger.
Not in pride.
Just refusal
to leave myself again.
I might lose you this way.
I know that.
Still, I stand.