He pointed at the curve where my mass should be.
The skinny line wherein the whole of my being should fit--
based on what a man in a lab coat said once.
He dashed a tiny spec above it, where I was.
Out of line.
Not fitting in.
Against the rules.
I counted the tiny squares that separated me from my belonging...
… one... two... three...
Three squares from worthiness.
Three squares wrong.
Three squares from deserving love.
Three squares from good enough.
I stared at that dot a man drew for me and discovered brokenness.
I was five.

She contemplated waking up before the rain
In the hopes of feeling something--
Something other than dreary dreadful dread.
Maybe that sounds childish
And maybe, just maybe, that's okay.

You feel your chest heave
But breath does not enter your lungs.
As air flows around your balloons and into to your stomach,
your lungs scream for your gut to share.

Your windpipe feels like less of a pipe
and more of a plug--
blocking the life force from entering,
quickening your heartbeat.

All because it's 8:13,
which means:
two hours until sleep
two hours to fill
I need to shower, still,
two full hours
two free hours
work tomorrow
but first, two whole hours
to do...
what?
Shower,
right.
Two hours.
Only two hours.
Gotta make 'em count!
But how?
Two hours to fill
I need to shower still
two full hours
two free hours

Nervousness, why?
Abstract, human-constructed time.

Two whole hours still
Only two hours to fill.

There has to be a reason.
There has to be a reason for all this suffering,
All this pain.

What is it all for?

I hope.
I hope to turn my heartache into art.

I could.
I could help someone, anyone,
with my story.

I need.
I need to turn this around
To make it worth it.

Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Pressure. Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Pressure. Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Pressure....

It never.
It never ends.

Why?
What for?

There has to be a reason.
I hope--
I could--
I need.

With a veiled promise of relief
Her young, trusting mind:
'Yes, anything, please!'

But it's not approved for kids.
But the doctor says it's fine.
She'd try anything to quiet her racing mind.

As the years fly by,
Her mind's still not at ease,
But she continues to take
That oval blue and green.

Slowly-- so slowly,
She almost didn't see--
Slowly, her communication
Isn't so free.

She knows what she wants to say,
But when she starts to speak it
The right words just fly away.

She's not dumb--
The words are all there,
At the tip of her tongue.
But then, suddenly, they aren't.

Slowly,
But surely,
But suddenly.  

She fumbles.
She finds them.
She dusts herself off.

She yearns to turn back time
And warn that young, trusting mind.

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

I hand-over my heart
Wrap it up in every single thing I do
For it all to come to a screeching halt
Over a few hours... of a few days... of a whole year
Of sweat blood and tears.

All I have left to show:
A few extra pennies
A fuller resume
Warm memories of inspired children
Cold memories of anger and spite
A tepid heart searching for the light