I know now myself as helpless—
helpless the way a rake
is helpless, helpless as knife, as needle,
as match, as pen is helpless.
I know what it is to not function,
despite potential, despite history.
I know how it is to lose all agency,
though once I could stitch,
could fix, could bring light.
I know can’t.
I know out of the question,
infeasible, undone, no-go.
Unable to speak. Unable to rise.
This was the moment when love arrived,
love with its ten thousand hands,
love with its perfect skeleton key
to enter every door of me.
Not that I asked.
Not that I deserved it.
Not that I said yes.
But love arrived on grief’s strong wings
and I, a sapped and broken thing,
began to know myself as free
dependent on a skillful hand,
began to trust as love turned me
toward what I most wished not to see,
began to feel myself as love.