Picking Up Sand
It’s hard to hear your laughter
across the hall, where I used to laugh too.
Don’t get me wrong, we still do
have a decent laugh every now and then.
It’s not what it used to be.
I’m not what I used to be.
I know you’re trying to make me feel okay.
I appreciate it. I’m fragile these days.
I almost broke my hand
on all sorts of furniture today;
it was a little too swollen for my taste
and surprisingly hurt more than I expected.
Tom came in while I was on the floor sobbing,
after I’d make a ruckus with the furniture
and with my belt.
The man just wanted to play some Halo.
He’s worried. I told him not today, man
and he texted me not long after,
saying I know where the bruises come from.
You ever just feel so fragile that you
need the love of someone’s arms
to hold you together, to keep you from falling apart,
to tell you it’s okay…
but it’s not just anyone’s arms that’ll do, no-
it’s their loving arms… your loving arms.
I know you’re not coming back to
help me hold myself together.
It’s just me. It’s just me trying to
hold together the pieces of me.
It’s like picking up sand,
shit’s just falling through the cracks
and all I’m left with is
something that kind of looks and acts like me.
I’ll try not to get my hopes up,
but come visit sometime, please.