“Don’t Let Go”

Don't Let Go

I learned how to ride a bicycle in Alaska.

It was a warm summer day when I got my first bike. Turquoise and pink. And a hot denim outfit to go with it.

“Where are my training wheels?” I asked Grandpa. My younger sister had training wheels on her new bike.

“Yumi is still a baby. You’re all grown up.” I was six. I’d never ridden a bike before then.


Dry Wall

I tried to blame my mother for what I did to you.

“Bull shit.” You told me. “You’re stronger than that.” You said.

We just laid there above your covers, staring at the ceiling. Mascara plastered to my cheeks. Your arm under my neck. The morning sun creeped in between the vertical shades, moving the shadows like bars in a cage. I wanted to give it a reason. But you pointed your finger at me.

“It’s ok. We can move past this.” You finally said.

You shouldn’t have bought me breakfast. You should’ve let me go. Now there’s a break in your dry wall from that burning in your fist. A crack to remind you, I was never strong enough for this.