My hands are asking questions that my legs refuse
To answer. To look at me, you would think
I am calm, whole, demure even. You don’t hear
The chatter that is my body refuting the idea
That I don’t really need to vomit, not now.
Another year older and contemplating options,
That’s what does it, trying to figure out how to get
What I want, and how much I will have to change
To get what I want: to be loved, cherished, even
Just to be held, which would also help right
About now, when even my cat is out of sight.