perishable (poem)
Why plant tomatoes, if they will one day freeze and die?
Why build a home, if I'll only have to leave?
Why gather books for the shelves, paint the walls, when those books and walls won't always be mine?
Why work so hard, if it may come to nothing?
Why wash the floors and the dishes, when they'll only get dirty again?
Why love anyone, if they will one day find out how I really am?
Why love myself? I'm bound to disappoint.
Isn't it foolish? To plant things you know will die?
It's wiser just to give up now.
Or it would be, if to live, despite all this,
wasn't my deepest and most impossible wish.