she said to me,
with the same sharp disdain
a church elder might show a young woman.
“You sure get the boys’ attention.”
As if I should somehow discard
the way I tear up at a commercial,
spend weeks caring for a pregnant stray,
or take time to answer an email
on my day off, just to ease someone else’s worry.
As if I could— or should—
suddenly reject everything that makes me who I am.
Just as she couldn’t
hold back her criticism,
no matter how hard she tried,
I couldn't be any different
and still be me. Besides,
it seems a far greater challenge
to die still tenderhearted
than die bitter like her.
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