Tonight,
I lay thirty down gently—
not because she was gentle with me,
but because I have carried her
far enough.
I empty her from my pockets:
the names I swallowed,
the doors I should have slammed,
the apologies I gave
for taking up room,
the nights I mistook surviving
for living.
I leave them here.
Beside the dead leaves.
Beside the cigarette ash.
Beside every version of me
who thought she had to bleed
to prove she loved someone.
Thirty was not beautiful.
Not always.
Sometimes she was teeth.
Sometimes she was courtrooms
and unanswered messages,
children crying in rooms
I couldn’t reach fast enough.
Sometimes she was staring
at a ceiling at 3 a.m.,
wondering how one body
could hold this much history
without splitting open.
But she was mine.
She gave me mornings
I didn’t think I’d see.
Four voices calling me Mom.
Cats curled warm against my legs.
Coffee forgotten on counters.
Laundry multiplying like a curse.
Poems scratched from wounds
before they had time to scar.
She taught me
that ordinary can be holy.
That coming home
doesn’t always look like a house.
Sometimes
it looks like becoming
someone you no longer
have to escape from.
So tonight,
I kiss thirty on the forehead.
Thank her
for dragging me here.
And when midnight comes,
I will not mourn her.
I will open the door.
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