What Can I Do To Be Better?
I look at her,
I talk to her,
I walk past her,
I high-five her as much as I possibly can.
But all I get is a three-finger brush on one high-five of 17.
I feel her damaged nails from taking off her press-ons,
I feel her smooth, moisturized, fingertips brush against mine,
I feel all of her sorrow and pain
pass through my blood cells
and though my veins
and into my brain.
Why isn’t she asking for help?
Oh wait.
It’s me.
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