You’re a handful sometimes. You know you’ll probably be up all night packing. You’re not sure you love your father anymore. Your head gets fuzzy sometimes. You don’t know what’s next. You don’t feel pretty. You sometimes lose the courage to say what you mean out loud. You hope your students understand they should not have to pay for their education. You know your grandmother only loves you conditionally. You wish your middle school counselor hadn’t seen right through you. You’re too protective of your mother. You use too much tissue paper around your favorite books. You understand now what he meant when he said your arms feel like home. You didn’t escape the stereotype of a child of divorce like you thought you had. You hope your best friend wasn’t right when he said you were broken. You want to go home.

midnight rain
bubble wrap punctures
the silence