I am reaching.
So many of my poems
begin with reaching.
I feel like I am always reaching,
without ever breaching any of the
walls I crawl to.
I just can't get past you.
You trespass and then scatter,
even when I want you to matter.
There's no way to start a poem
without reaching. My poems
are all about grasping at thin air
with words that are my arms,
my hands trying to grab
anything to keep me grounded.
I've found its only a matter of time
before my crime is punished -
I have empty hands,
swollen arms,
and a useless throat.
I am reaching. Squeaking,
because maybe noise
will draw you in.
Call you into your place
in me. Emptiness
doesn't sit well
with me.
It boils into anger
my friends who won't fill me,
my mother who instilled in me
a fear of getting close; too,
my brother that won't know me,
my father who won't show me
the only thing I need.
I am angry
at them for existing
without me,
Because without them,
I do not remember
if my hands are really reaching
or just floating;
empty space
in a world with too many
walls
and not enough.