Can I just live?

Be a woman in her 30s,
not defined by the scar across my belly,
a story my body holds without asking me to explain,
not measuring the thinning patch on my head
like time is taking inventory of me.

To not have to make sense
of hormones that move like weather—
unannounced, unsteady
of emotions that come and go
without needing to be solved.

Crying, staring into nothing,
then waking up
as if hope found me again
without permission.

To not become the woman
who stopped taking photos of herself,
who kept trying
until trying became the only thing left.

To sit in a room with a doctor
and not feel like I am waiting
for a verdict about my life.

To hear the question—when?—
and let it pass through me,
because there is a timeline, they say.

There is a timeline, I know
There’s a bus waiting, sure
But here’s what I know too, I am at the crossroads

Will time wait?

But I am not in a hurry.
And if life unfolds differently—
or not at all in the ways they expect—
I will still be here,
still whole,
still living.

Because what can I do
when I am already trying,
already tired,
already showing up for myself
in ways no one sees?