Once I thought I was someone else, living on some other street in some other city. Sleeping in some other bed and waking up at some other time. My days not starting so soon and lasting so long and having help and love and good little children who don’t demand my life.
Once I thought I was still young and could start over. I thought mistakes could be forgiven and forgotten. I thought I could still figure out how to love and we would be forever. Forever a thing like Motown melodies and starry skies. Forever as in the lonely sentence of a black woman’s life.
Once I thought I was someone else. Someone who didn’t have a disease. Someone who wasn’t wild with worry and eaten alive by fear. Someone who planned a good life.
Now I know.