I wish I had a box of sticks – the size of pencils but not so precious, that I could pick up and snap to break my frustration.
I wish I had a pile of plates – that smashed like crockery but not so sharp, that I could hurl against a wall to shatter my anger.
I wish I had another foot – that swung like my own but felt no pain, that I could boot against a wall to kick away the boundaries.
I wish I had another face – that looked like mine but never anxious, that I could wear when life keeps on demanding.
I wish I had another heart – that had this love but not the ache, that I could carry inside me to keep my pulse steady.
I wish I didn’t have to write shit like this