You look at me like I’m insane, because
I say that I don’t want a partner yet.
You act as if a set of natural laws
demands that I be married. You forget
how bad I was at being someone’s wife,
how inappropriate for me the role
of compromising helpmeet. I’ve a life
too selfish; I’m determined to control.

You know I’m best alone, but won’t accept
how married I was miserable and mad,
each morning poorly rested, for I slept
as tense as disappointment: angry; sad.
If you’ll just write and exercise, you’ll see
how clearly happy all alone can be.

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