I will always be a sad woman, or a good woman,
or nothing in between.  I am always tired,
always doing the wrong things to make right.  I am redundant.
I am unaware of how to not be so, when sight only has blips of relevance.
I think,
this is all OK.
I think, this is all I know, and have developed.
I suppose so.
I suppose it is OK to be wrecked,
not forever,
but maybe.
OK to be distrustful, of disgusting consistencies,
which make us human
in the most furious ways.
We can take comfort, that we know the ways
to procreate,
and decide against or for it.
Choice.