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.