I take
3 hard candies in my hand and
slip them out of their plastic shells.
I pop each one into my mouth
with a quick movement,
So no one can see what I’ve done.
I take
pictures of leaves and flowers and hands
and then delete them.
I hide them so well
That they’re never found,
And I shake my head when
People see my camera
And ask if I take any good pictures.
I take
insults
And warp them until they’re
All I can hold onto.
Subtle, teasing comments
That shouldn’t mean anything.
I take
Tests and lose my sanity
For 44 minutes.
I give
hesitant hugs and lemon drops with smiles that taste just as sour.
I give
Averted glances and
Tired, trembling high fives.
I’ve given
until my hands are so empty and raw that they hurt too much to take.
I can’t take from others
Because I know how hard it is to give.
We’re still kids with
Sticky fingers,
Stuck to rapacity and red life savers.
I take
books and fall asleep with them so the pages are crumpled where I finished reading.
I take
water and let it slip through the cracks between each finger,
Long showers that lull
My environmentalist mind to sleep.
I take
Deep breaths
Between giggles or sobs ––
It makes no difference.
I take
a dictionary and shake it hard
so the words have new meanings.
I take
walks.
I take
my friends’ hands when we walk through cemeteries
because it’s scary and cold,
But their fingers aren’t.
I take
Minutes to myself.
Sunday mornings where I lay under a snowy white mountain of blankets,
The sun creeping in through my window;
I take
her in with open arms.
I take for myself,
From myself.
I take
3 hard candies
And rip them out of their plastic shells,
So everyone knows that I’m here
And ready to take.