I’m Not Strong

I’m not strong.
I only yell my hands to still
until I reach
the lonely corner
to curl up
and give in to the weakness.

I’m not strong.
My mind lasted for childhood
then broke in motherhood.
I demand for sense
but it draws blank–
to black.

I’m not strong.
I wail against the world
when no one hears,
and tear out reason,
hair and skin,
to taste my only constant.

I’m not strong.
I’m tired all the time.
Wake me up,
because I’m swathed
in the blurry folds
of sleepless nights.

I’m not strong.
I flinch at yelling,
cry in fights,
but at least I do not run away.
Because I still hope
that maybe,
maybe,

I’ll be strong again.

But now, I’m not.
Maybe that’s okay.
Okay, okay,
for now.