life does this thing
in which it leaves you little gifts
like in exchange for the sting
its palms bring
when they hit your face -
first this side, then the other,
as if it could cover up the redness

far from comfort, consolation,
soothing - it exhausts and exasperates
like being stepped on
and ground with the heel, you break
into little pieces
before shattering completely

frustrated sobs leave you gasping for air
you believe there's hope when
there's nothing there
what am I going to do when I'm scared
that every next step
will be the one that falls through,
come crashing and have no one
to help me up or hold my hand

life is like the father,
who will end up leaving you,
how when he threw you in the air
his arms were outstretched,
but you never quite knew,
whether or not he'd actually catch you