I twirl my hair like I’m making candy.
I pull it out like I’m made of metaphors.
I’m biting your tongue.
You’re biding my time.
Years of miscommunication, disparate conversation.
I down another disappointment and build another boundary
for greedy hands to push and for me to cower behind.
I’ve tried standing in, standing out and standing up but my legs give way.
Give me a break or a sentence.
A minute or repentance.
I have sixteen eyes but terrible vision.
Twenty shaky hands that can’t put keys in the ignition.
Billions of lines that somehow struggle with division.
And six brains that can’t make a single decision.