The palm of my hand
took the brunt of my anger,
fist into soft skin on
sunny days.
Moonlit rides on the side
of a car, I screamed for a
joy not now remembered;
I was eight.
Recent transgressions
brought me to ask others
to catch my fall, my wrist
as I leaned over railings,
out windows.
No one ever answers,
they know that it
is not a cry for help.
