The cloying, clawing, nagging feeling in my chest.
Tiny child’s hands reaching out.
Please, please. Acknowledge me.
Let me lay my pain down on the table and let us grieve it, cry for it.
Shut my eyes and wipe me down.
Tell me you understand.
Tell me what a shame it was that I never got what I wanted.
The push and pull. Of wanting to get up, but simply staying down, down, down.
I reach for the sky while my heart plummets roots and thorns and red, beady tentacles deep, deep into the dirt.
The clouds tell me to declutter the mind. Escape the clutch and breathe.
Don’t stay there in longing for the hand of another.
Grab your own hand.
Hold it tight.
Tell the little girl:
I am here for you.
I will have your pain.
I will be the parent you always wished you had.
I will be the one to give you all that you needed.
I am the one you were always waiting for.