Why do we need to be told
over and over
that it’s fine to be,
just to be what we are.

Permission to rest,
to not feel small,
to want less,
to do the one thing, 
to love.

For some time
I’ve wanted to set my fork down,
to fill up on stillness,
on melancholy, and lack,
to be useless awhile.

I could believe 
in slowness, in time,
for bitter green things 
to ripen

If I didn’t already believe
so wholeheartedly
I was on the verge
of becoming—
quickly, breathlessly,
becoming
—a real girl.