I wish I wasn’t damaged goods.
Small shards of a porcelain tea cup
held together by crazy glue
where you can still peer right through,
used only as decoration now
because nothing poured into it stays.
There’s only so many times that you can fix something that’s broken.
I wish my brain wasn’t programmed to think
that kindness is suspicious
and that the boat is always going to sink.
All I hear is that time will heal,
and there are no flowers without rain,
but when it’s monsoon after monsoon,
and my roots keep getting ripped from the ground,
how am I supposed to trust the rain again?
I wish to be brave when they come along.
Maybe I help remove every brick and stone
as curiosity gets the best of me;
my walls would crumble down
so they could get a little closer,
but I’m so scared of myself these days,
and the way I tend to get carried away.
I wish that they’ll be patient
setting me free from this cage I’ve made.
These walls have been rebuilt
over and over again,
and I’m getting tired.
I wish for them to rush to me,
tearing at the walls,
throwing brick after brick
as far as they can behind them;
reach their arms out to me,
let me surrender every tense muscle
into the safety of their warmth,
pull me into the cavern of their chest,
hand on my head,
arm around my shoulders.
Kiss me, touch me,
love me unconditionally,
like I’ve always loved.
I wish for them
to show me mercy.
Show me I’m not as difficult to love
as the others made it seem.
That love is real and true,
and it’s not this terrifying thing
that’ll break me.
And when they ask, “What’d you wish for?”
I’ll use that same old excuse,
“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
