Accommodation. Accommodation. Accommodation.
I sacrifice parts of myself for others.
Though it is bitter and fills my soul with dread, I accommodate.
I feel sick at the expense of myself.
Try as I might, I am still too weak to be brave.
Though satisfaction and ease fill me when I mold myself to the whims of others.
The idea of strength and stubbornness repulse me though I know I would be happier.
Though like the convections of currents, I am able to change and tolerate.
Should this make me a better person?
