Enough
“You are not enough.”
She said it out loud.
“You are not enough.”
If she said it over and over, she thought it might work like a chant, like an incantation, like a spell, like a way to start over.
“You are not enough.”
Okay. So she could be talking to herself. Or she could be talking to the one who sleeps next to her. Or she could be talking to a stranger or even the new friend, the one she wants to know better.
Or consider this: she could be talking to the trees, to the birds—the pictures framed by her windows and doors. An orange bird came by earlier but did not linger long on the branch. She had never seen that particular bird before. She knew the robins and cardinals and chickadees. But this one, she could not name. She thought to look it up in a book, but her sighting was so brief. There and gone.
It went like that—the sights out her window, on her walks, in her conversations, in her bed at night.
“You are not enough.”
She could hear it in her dreams, the chant.
The words coming slow motion—almost like moans. The words spelled out on the sky. The words becoming echoes, becoming night, becoming only air.
Only breath.
That’s what a chant is supposed to do, right? Bring you back to your breath. To some invisible, holy place.
Where there is no you.
No enough.
No not.
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