Confession

the voice says, “you love her because she was nice to you”
I say, and why not? don’t I deserve kindness and care?
she’s smart, moral, fierce, beautiful, brilliant, shining
and yes, she was nice to me, like a hand pulling me from the mud

I wish things were different. I wish she didn’t have someone. it’s petty and selfish and I can’t do anything about it. even if she were single, she wouldn’t be with me. there is no way. these are not the circumstances. it is not the time. I have to accept it. I do accept it. I hate it, but I accept it. it overwhelms me with grief but I accept it. it makes my face hot and flush with whistling tea kettle shame but I accept it.

I’m reaching out, waist-deep in the mud. she can only pull so much. I can only be pulled, so much. I have to push. I push. it might not be enough. I deserve to be clean and dry and free of this never-ending muck. the mud and the loneliness and the despair cover me, an oozy slickness. it dries on my skin like I’m baked in clay. I try to pick it off and wash it off and finally feel secure in the warm and free air. I try to accept myself, and savor the footsteps.

© Jessica Umbra, 2025
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