Two Women

Myself and I.

There are two of us.

One wakes up
and opens the curtains.

The other
is still holding the night
by its throat.

One says
get dressed.

The other says
not yet

I am still bleeding
in a place
the day has no permission
to enter.

One makes coffee
answers messages
finds the keys
remembers her name.

The other
stands barefoot
inside the body

asking God
to lower the volume.

I have lived this way
for years.

One woman surviving.

One woman witnessing.

One woman
holding the morning together
with whatever light
she can steal
from the curtains.

One woman
coming undone
quietly enough
not to frighten
the furniture.

And I am tired.

Tired of splitting myself
just to make it
through a day

that keeps asking me
to be ordinary.

Tired of sending
one half of me
into the world

washed, dressed
polite

while the other half
kneels somewhere
inside me
swallowing thunder
swallowing the scream
before it becomes sound.

But this morning
I did not silence her.

I did not tell her
to behave.

I did not dress the ache
in something pretty

so the day
could tolerate me.

This morning
I let both of us speak.

No shame.

No performance.

No small lie
to make the sorrow
easier to hold.

Just myself
and I

two women
inside one name

one carrying the keys

one carrying the dark

both tired
of being alone
with me.

And maybe healing
is not becoming
one woman again.

Maybe healing
is opening the door

and letting every version
of myself

come home.