knocknocknock
s t e p s t e p
c     r     e     a     k

hello?

i miss you.

i miss your hands in mine.
i miss the crinkle of your eyes when you smile.
i miss running through hotel halls.
i miss racing and beating you again and again.
i miss what i felt.


i miss the way things were.


blinkblinkblink
d r o p d r o p
b    r    e    a    t    h    e

that's what i would've said
had he opened his front door.

i woke up at ten o clock
the time i was supposed to
leave my house for an appointment.

i played a video game i
hadn't played in years
with my sister, of all people.
i had barely spoken a word to her
in weeks, but suddenly we
were both sitting on the couch,
yelling at a screen.
bonding, i suppose.

i joked around with my parents.
it was a little strange, them
being nice to me,
but a change i welcomed.

trivial moments of a trivial today.
almost too trivial. boring. unproductive.
but, i suppose there's always a
tomorrow that never comes
to accomplish something.

a  poet
because i don't know if worded feelings
count as art.

a  friend
because i am unsure if i am teasing
or insulting.

(a  good
person
child
partner)

worthy
because so far it seems like
i am a dead weight to this planet.

(a waste of
air
space
time
money)

all of these am i's
and not a single i am.

at
  was           a
        11            table
   and           for
  one            10
       left            there
   out.


                                          me.

when i was four, i got to be line leader
for my preschool class;
i was so excited that
i went straight outside without
my teacher telling me to, leaving my whole class
behind. my teacher got mad, and i
think that was the first time i cried out of sadness.

in kindergarten, i stole a rock from my teacher.
i didn't know it was stealing, i just
thought it was a pretty rock and i wanted to have it.
i later gave it to my best friend
because she was mad at me and i thought
that rock would appease her.
it didn't.

another time during first grade,
i called my teacher mom. she made fun of me.
***** you, mrs. brandon.

second grade was uneventful.

in third grade, i got scared by my teacher
during open house. i walked
into her classroom but didn't see her
until she popped up 2 inches from my face,
"Hi!" her voice boomed.
she was nice though. she taught us how
to swallow pills because we were curious of how
she took her migraine meds each morning.

i also argued with my third grade math teacher
over the spelling of marshmallow.
she spelled it marshmellow, and i hated her,
so i pointed it out
just to make her mad.

in fourth grade, i moved to another house
and saw my dad punch my brother in the hallway
of our new home.
in fifth grade, i said '****' for the first time.
in sixth grade, i cursed like a sailor
and tried to eat less.
in seventh grade, i wore makeup
and became sick in the head.

eighth grade was boring.
not that i can
remember any of it, of course.

when will you release my heart?
you clench it, squeeze it,
tear it in two different directions.
i can't tell whether you're
caring for or breaking it.

when will you be kind?
you used to take me by the arm
and throw me across the room
and now the only thing that takes a beating
is my mind. i wish the scars you left
were still physical ones.

when will you be steadfast?
it seems like in a matter of seconds,
you've gone from screaming at me
to treating me like someone you do love.
i just wish you weren't a rollercoaster.

when will you tell the truth?
you say you love me, that you care,
that you do everything for me,
but you call me a ****. immature. a failure.
cowardly. weak. invalid. a waste of
time, money, space.

when will you love me?
you say you do. you feed and clothe me.
you pay for school and extracurriculars.
is that love? is you
doing what you're expected to do
as my mother
love?

you ask if i will be happy somewhere else.
you ask why i am so reserved in your house.
you ask why i don't like to talk to you.
i can't respond because i know
the answer i would give
would make you
feel like a
bad

mother.

sidewalks are
meant for
two people
no more
if there
are three
one's always
left behind:


me.