eight

Fighting to hold back the words I want to say. Since age 8, the words became hidden behind a violet jacket in the closet. Pulling the arms away, there were messages of help written with permanent marker on the walls—seeking visibility, but hidden in dismay. Always the mediator, holding back the tears until cracking that day on the playground when you caught me trying to run away. The whistle blew from afar, and taking off like a cheetah, I galloped across the hop scotches, Chinese jump ropes, and tether ball courts. Tears made rivulets on my rosy cheeks as you grabbed my arm and led me back to room 23. I left my soul on the black asphalt that day, only to be stepped on while kids played dodge ball and around the world. I am finally picking up the remaining pieces of soul dust imprinted with little Sketchers and wads of gum. I could have been re-baptized and submerged in salty tears this month, but no longer will I deny feelings that have been absent since age 8.