I paid a psychic $40 and she told me I was put on this Earth to help others

“Your soul is exhausted, dear.”

“You have been here many times before.”

She said I have lived as a public speaker, lawyers, writers

(I don’t tell her I’m writing this book)

I find comfort in this, even as I wonder if it should make me sad; spiritually predestined

to pour more into others than I ever have in my cup

Is it a cruel fate?

Eternally the writer, but never the muse?

Is my only potential to recognize it in others?

Maybe I will always love harder than I am loved, but what a privilege it is to love