At an arms length
I've spent so long reacting, performing,
keeping things just far enough away
that even when I reach inward,
there’s nothing solid to hold onto.
I wander between who I should be
and the shape I’ve learned to take,
but neither fits, neither stays.
I want to be seen, but not entirely.
To be held, but never bound.
To chase connection, yet carve out distance.
To set myself alight, then curse the fire.
And maybe I could change,
but I hold my breath instead.
Every time a hand reaches for me,
I flinch, I fold, I sink.
I’d rather drown than be pulled to shore.
I wish I had spoken first,
or stayed silent longer.
Held on tighter.
Let go sooner.
Known what mattered
before it became memory.
I am still here,
too afraid to move forward,
too tired to stay still.
And in a way,
it’s comforting, isn’t it?
The rhythm.
The shape.
The way it stays.
At least it’s mine.