I think I try too hard sometimes,
she said.
The words can’t flow
The lines aren’t straight
The black doesn’t blend with
the white
like I wanted it to.
But I’ll keep trying and beating
and breathing,
bleeding and crying
‘Til my cheeks are flecked with little
diamond grains of salt.
Maybe if I hadn’t stepped on
that needle when I was eleven
I could try to walk, too.
But I can’t.
Get up and walk,
my mother said.
But I guess she hadn’t noticed
the needles imbedded in my
feet.
They scratch at my bones carving
little words of love and hate.
I choose not to read them, but I can
feel them.
I think I try too hard sometimes,
she said.
Trying to forget and
restrain,
Refrain from feeling the
things that cause boys
and girls to give me strange looks
like,
they can’t understand how
my heart swelled to
this size.