A broken ladder is all I seem to be
worthless
once used to achieve great things
to climb to great heights

What am I now?

Ah,
a broken ladder
I'm missing rungs but don't seem to care
I'm scratched
creaky
old.

People used to fight to climb me
they fought to get the "good" ladder
now I sit alone in the corner
waiting for a moment
waiting for someone to need me
but in the end
I am not needed

They found another ladder.
Now I shall be thrown away
or have I been already?

I wish
I wish I could help
I wish I was able to heal your wounds
to kiss them all better
But I don't know how

I wish
I wish I could understand
I wish that somehow I could reach into those deep dark depths you keep so secret
and learn
But I am too ignorant

I wish
I wish I could do something
ANYTHING
To make this less
To lighten your burden

But, dear child
that is simply
a wish.

i can talk and be proud of what i'm saying
i can speak my mind and know that i mean it
i spend time outside my darkened bedroom (and enjoy it)
i live in the moment, because i know that it will be worth it in the end
i see the boy with lovely large hands and smile because it makes me happy

but

i still cry at the creases between my fathers' eyes
i still feel inadequate in the way i'm slower than others
i still understand that my hands will never fold around his the way i want
i still have the creeping feeling that it will all fall apart

but

I am growing and I am living and I am being. so i am.

I wish to escape the skin I’m in.
I want to peel off my layers, one by one and emerge as light.
I want to float through the free space as stardust.
I want my dry eyes to shed seeds of tears that drop to the earth and plant my words into the soil.

I wish I could drown in the sun.
Thousands of rays of light enveloping, curling around me. Ensuring warmth even with the incoming shards of glass glittering in the sky.
I want to be as light as the paper thin crystal of a butterfly’s wings.
I want to carve out my heart,
still pumping blood onto my fingertips.
I want to feel the vitality leaving my body,
still clutched in my palms.
I want to whittle away at my shoulder blades until they are smooth and form no hills on my back.
I wish I was magma ready to burst from a volcano.
I wish I had its burning intensity.

I am the melted snow.
I am a sore muscle.
I am the chewed bits of fingernail after seeing him for the third time and saying nothing.
I am not made of stardust.  
I’m made of cobwebs and 1 a.m. thoughts, dying in a room too small to hold my secrets.