Don’t Hold Your Breath

I scream out loud, craving help, aching support, pleading for a miracle, a hand to hold, to guide me through it all.

A higher power, a force to show the way —to prove I’m not alone today. To catch my tears, to still my fears,

Skinned knees, runny nose,

whispered secrets, no one else knows.

Seatmates, sleepovers, lights left on

being home alone, but never gone.

Then…

Back pain. Headaches. Early nights.

Colleague drama and muted fights.

Home alone means living alone

silence hums through a rented home.

Friends get married, wear gold bands.

Post ultrasound pictures, have mortgage appointments.

They build houses, brick by brick.

I build a bear: soft, stitched, quick.

Cleaning up. Laundry piles.

Dishes stacked in growing files.

Vacuum lines across the floor,

proof of effort but nothing more.

Friends move cities, states, seas.

Making new ones isn’t as easy.

You learn their stories, nod and smile

but you missed their younger while.

Relationships fade, no crash, no burn

just shorter texts and less return.

Work eats hours day by day,

takes the light and leaves the gray.

I don’t want to be a kid again.

No homework.

No hallway spin.

But this part of growing up

this quiet trade of spark for stuff

… makes me feel a step behind,

out of rhythm, out of time.

Like everyone received the cue

the sky is blue, the air feels light. I wonder who I’ll be tonight. A dreamer, someone strong, with wit, a night owl: creative, with just the right kit.

The sun sets low, a golden shine. I ask, when will I cross the line to be someone I can’t take back, painting over all the cracks?

The birds sing early, loud and clear. I question, will I always be here waiting, stretched out, bent? It’s hard to breathe, pills in my hand.

The night is dark, the stars shine bright, twinkling, whispering with all their might. I guess I want to know what happens when I break apart and build anew the kid I was.