
I’m definitely not supposed to say ‘myself.’
Especially not as your partner, and your mother, and your friend. Especially not as all the things I am that other people own. The carrier even, of you too, this little bundle of cells that will someday also call me ‘mama’ if I don’t fuck it up.
If I don’t fuck it up.
There are so many ways I am owned and they are all ways I am proud of. I am your mother, your wife, your friend, I am your grandchild and your child, I am so many things that belong to others.
I get up early every day, though.
“You really need to sleep more,” husband says. He stays up later than me, though. Unimportant. It’s a thing with men; how they do it is right, and how I do it is wrong.
That’s what I tell myself at 3am when I am awake, and I belong only to myself.

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