no shortcuts.

"Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet"

I know it's all going to change. It's going to change fast.
It's not that it will change fast—I'm fine with the change,
I'm fine with fast. But do I actually need to be in it?
Couldn't this be like a "set it and forget it" moment?
Couldn't it be like ruby shoes, click-click-click—
poof. Maybe I don't even like slow. I thought I wanted slow.

"Slow and steady wins the race." But I haven't seen a hare
or a turtle. Actually, I'm kind of a mess. I'm chaos.
Chaos on steroids. Like roid-rage. Like that pro wrestler
who killed his wife and kids. Okay. Okay. Maybe not that bad.

And yeah, yeah, yeah, I knooooow that the wait is part of it.
But also—it's barely waiting? I know it will all be over in a year.
My husband says a year isn't long.
My husband says a year isn't THAT long.

We've been married over eight years and it feels like a lifetime,
until someone throws a curveball, breaks my nose, and reminds me
of the first husband. Gosh—maybe a year isn't that long.

I want to blame a chemical imbalance. Wouldn't that be nice?
A neat little test and—oh my! There it is! You are 2 ml too low,
you are 50 mg too high—take this at night and you'll be fine!

But alas, alas, alas—we talked, we cried, we held each other,
and determined we are just broken people, doing our best.
But sometimes our best just doesn't look that fucking good.

Sometimes my best is cruel, and rude, and screaming,
and selfish, and bratty. And, you know what? My husband—
he’s kind of the same.

So we wait. How long? Who knows?
But it’s probably about a year.
He said a year isn’t that long.