I am seven,
I have sliced my knuckle open on the swings
it’s cold and I am not wearing enough,
I have just failed a math quiz
I am standing behind the climbing wall
clutching my index finger unsure of
the next step—
Which is odd, really,
I am worried about my inability to make it to
the next grade and for some reason
resolve to not share any of this with my parents
because worry and anger are synonymous and
not accepted,
So I will myself to forget about this feeling,
this uncertainty, these menial things that
could have been so easily assuaged if
I’d just been able to share how I was feeling—
I spend the next 21 years willing myself to
forget every unsavory thing and now
I am angry,
I am holding more than just my ****** finger
on a playground in the dead of winter
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 9:52 PM UTC
I am seven,
I have sliced my knuckle open on the swings
it’s cold and I am not wearing enough,
I have just failed a math quiz
I am standing behind the climbing wall
clutching my index finger unsure of
the next step—
Which is odd, really,
I am worried about my inability to make it to
the next grade and for some reason
resolve to not share any of this with my parents
because worry and anger are synonymous and
not accepted,
So I will myself to forget about this feeling,
this uncertainty, these menial things that
could have been so easily assuaged if
I’d just been able to share how I was feeling—
I spend the next 21 years willing myself to
forget every unsavory thing and now
I am angry,
I am holding more than just my ****** finger
on a playground in the dead of winter
(C) Brooke Otto 2026
