all she does

is write little books,

is what I heard the husband of a friend say once.

that's all she does, all day he said and she laughed

and I nodded and felt my shoulders sink and remembered her laugh

as I sat on the floor, or at tiny desks,

writing on a broken laptop while three children under seven

tugged at my hair and begged me to play and feed, all day, every day

while my husband worked away.

all I do is write little books, I smiled and politely agreed,

and reminded myself and others that this little cozy hobby

was really such a luxury as I dealt with a fallen mind and lost babies

and feeling isolated in a country that

amplified what it really was, to feel utterly lonely.

I washed my hands of these comments

as often as I washed my children's beautiful faces

starting fresh every single time, wishing I could tell people

these little books are all I have, they are all mine

they keep me company at night when I feel I've lost everything

and maybe I'm even running out of time

and my fingers curl around my pen, as I imagine the cozy couples

smiling with bright white teeth that turn into fangs at night

you're right, I smile back, my fist curled tight.

Be careful what I'll write.

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