Tired

I am tired in the way a city is tired
after sirens have dragged themselves through every artery of it

I am tired in the shoulders of women who carry invisible ledgers—who balance grief with groceries

I am tired of being the room that holds men who do not live in it

I am tired of almost

tired of being almost chosen
almost held
almost enough

do you know what that does
to a woman who has already given
all the versions of herself
she once promised she would protect

it teaches her
how to disappear
politely

I am tired of the strange holiness of contradiction
how a man can bow his head to God
and lift his hands to me
without ever saying my name out loud

I am tired of swallowing the moment

I am so tired

tired enough to finally admit
that I have been generous
where I should have been guarded

open
where I should have been still

So — tonight

I will take back my hands
from where they reached too far