Full

Another fucked-up situation,
with nobody I feel I can lean on.

Still showing up.
Still smiling.
Still carrying emotional groceries
for people with perfectly functioning hands.

She told her mama,
“He has a family emergency.”

Girl, please.

The emergency
was realizing I no longer belonged there.

I drove you to your destination,
then broke up with you.

Somehow,
that made me the villain.

Funny how the person
who finally stops bleeding
gets blamed for the mess.

Everybody wants to be understood.
Everybody wants to be heard.

I’m past needing either.

Not because I’m bitter—
because I’m tired.

There’s a difference.

Like a monk,
I’m considering a vow of silence.

Too much breath wasted
explaining myself
to people committed
to misunderstanding me.

Then came the ultimatum:

“If you wasn’t coming back,
I was gonna block you on everything.”

You called it a threat.
I heard a favor.

See, my first ultimatum was:
fly home and somebody else
would be sleeping where I slept,
or stay in Texas for two weeks.

That choice became eight years.

So what game you think you’re playing with me?

Eye don’t overindulge.

Not people.
Not emotions.
Not potential.

Even at an all-you-can-eat buffet,
I know when to excuse myself from the table.

Maybe that’s what being full means—

recognizing you’ve had enough
and refusing another bite.