My hands have always been weak.
When I was seven years old, they decided
that I needed to go to physical therapy
because I couldn’t hold a pencil.
I couldn’t hold the reins tight enough.
I kept dropping things. I couldn’t do
anything right.

I have always been inherently sad.
When I was nine years old, they decided
that I needed to go to therapy
because I couldn’t control myself.
I couldn’t appreciate what I had.
I never slept. I couldn’t do
anything

I punched walls and kicked doors.
I ripped posters off of my
fourth-grade classroom walls.
Ten years old, I walked through the hallways,
All eyes on me because I was
Toilet Girl
I just couldn’t seem to
get it right.

When I am twelve, I’ll start
to write ****** poetry instead
of destroying things because
both are art forms but
my parents have to pay when I
destroy things.

When I am thirteen, I’ll realize
that it’s not just material objects
I have trouble holding on to.
I have trouble holding on to people, too.

I am fourteen, and I have just
been told that I’m not
doing anything right.
I haven’t hit a wall in years but
I guess old habits die hard because
I’m fifteen with
new scars on my knuckles

I am inherently sad and my hands are weak.
I write poems on my computer because
I still can’t hold a pencil.
But for someone with such
weak hands
I have a lot of scars on my knuckles.