At the End of The Day

At the end of the day, I return to my fetal position
under your victorious roof,
celebrating over the demons we’ve fought
and the angels who’ve come for us.

At the end of the day, I tiptoe through your sleep
with a grumbling stomach, which my mind muffles,
with flashes of words that fill me before you retire.

Hollow, I feel, but only know so, when loneliness leaks
and I am left with a smarting pain.
And I crumble in your house
and yet still have a home.

Not knowing what tomorrow holds, or the same morning,rather,
I keep them in my memories and extensions of me,
extensions of me adorned with patches of you, who shine through me
in my lowest points, in my highest lows.

At the end of the day, I cup your chiseled sacrifice in pure honesty of tears and joy
beaming three decades of union and thee offsprings who don’t come close.

At the end of the day, you love me the same
regardless of what animal I turn into, the tail of humanity…
a motherhood shaped perfectly, shaken, but never distorted.

At the end of the day, where do I stand?
Between the demon and the angel who return to a fetal position under your roof…at the end of the day?