Emma

Clutch the wall with your sorry hands like you always do, their stares toward me indicate. I might need a moment to not remember where I’m standing, what I’m doing, who I’m with. I might need a second to process seeing what was supposed to be my future in someone else’s hands. The way I breathe now, like the air has vaporized and left me with toxic stillness. Why can’t people see through the pain I’m not showing? My hands aren’t sorry for needing to feel something, even if it’s the tile floor.