they’re back,
these thoughts of incompetence,
visiting my brain
as if it’s an abandoned summer home
where they may do what they please

then guilt arrives,
the inspector who came at the wrong time
to examine the scene
as these thoughts tumble within me,
tracking dirt on the floors,
chipping paint off the walls,
easily fixable,
but the verdict is the same:
not strong enough

but I am not,
in fact, inept
and the state of being
is underrated

a home
a vessel
a catalyst
a ray

I, out of love, am
and that is all I need to be

so I keep telling myself
that these thoughts need not
hinder me



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