I was a stubborn child.
Just ask my parents, they could write you a book
On all the different types of stubborn I’ve mastered.
I am still, by all accounts a stubborn child.
Though now this stubborn in my own,
To feed and keep alive.
My stubborn has brought me here, to this moment.
I stubborned my way through college,
And I stubborn my way to work every morning,
Five days a week, eight hours a day.
My stubborn has gotten me through my sadness,
And my anger.
I stubborn myself out of being afraid at least once a day,
And there have been times,
When my stubborn has been all that I had left.
But even my supply of stubborn is not infinite.
Someday, something will break me.
So intricately that my stubborn cannot sand off the edges,
Of the shattered pieces so that I can no longer pick them up,
Without cutting my hands.
Someday, my stubborn will wear out,
And I will be too tired to feed it the energy to keep it alive.
Too tired to crawl out of the cave,
That I have learned to call comfortable.
That day, when all of my stubborn is gone,
And I can’t stubborn my way out being afraid
That I am all I have left,
I hope that I won’t have to stubborn my way into believing,
That that is enough.