She has always been loud and angry about
Her sadness.
She reaches into our rooms, plucks us up,
Sends our arms around her body
And piles her tears into the nooks of our clavicles.
I never learned how to reach like that.
My position was always upright, tense,
Resisting as much as I could
Without going back on my role.
I’m still not used to people touching me out of happiness.
I’m still not used to
Touching people, period.
I was brought here the same as each on both ends:
Large mouths and balled fists always on the verge of ready,
But we knew how to retreat when the world
Bound itself inside of you, heavier than
Your own heartbeat.
I’m not entirely sure which to call normal.
The way that she pours herself into our emptiness
And refuses to back away,
Or the way that we know to suffocate ourselves
Before ever, ever
Moving this into someone else.