Reach

It’s 9 p.m. and I’m at

the dinner table, reaching;

for something other than

my mother’s words

of approval.  She too is reaching;

for the possibility of mending

my “broken” edges.

 

It’s 10 p.m. and

the heaviness of her,

disappointment stops echoing

into my surroundings, and she’s

not reaching;

anymore.

 

My hands meet, and

my thoughts are silent

prayers, reaching;

for some God’s acceptance.

Help me

 

It’s 11 p.m. and

there is a

cold, that seems to penetrate

the walls of silence, I’ve

become confined in. My arms wrap

around my figure, like blankets reaching;

for warmth.

 

I feel small.

Powerless.

Lacking.

 

I find myself shaking, reaching;

for her;

Come back,

Please.

I’ll reach;

perfection.

I promise.