a man’s space

i used to try on my father’s clothes

his attire never seemed to fit me,

in his eyes anyway.

i felt the emptiness in his

work shirt,

envying how it compared to my shoes.

leather and sole,

tightening its hold as if it were

pinning my feet to the floor.

my father could grow so tall,

the roof would creak

as he leant his back against it.

i sucked in my stomach

but never protested.

how could i ask for more space

than what he had offered? it seemed

my larynx held wasted breath.

the first to be squashed.

the pockets of air in his shirt

became a cold comfort.

yet i wondered,

if i could stretch my skin

and blow up like a balloon,

could i fill a man’s space too?

i could take my mother’s hand,

tell her we need to leave.

father takes up too much room now.

growth has left little of me.

a pair of eyes

and a crooked tooth.

but my body still aches

to spread my arms

and fill my father’s clothes.

to occupy a space he didn’t

squeeze me into.

to stand beside not behind a man.

someday i will no longer cower

before the men who forced their way

inside my skull,

and scrubbed with soapy water.

maybe i will learn that air

is a grateful reminder of my place

when i feel constricted.

that my space extends to the clouds;

and even further.