I just want to —

“I just want to hug you,” you say —
so easily.
But all I hear
is the anxiety in my gut,
and all I feel
is my trembling limbs.

“I just want to hold your hand,”
you say again —
but all I can see
are my palms sweating,
my head spinning,
my mind racing.

“I just want to play with your hair,”
you whisper —
but I can only see
my fingers fidgeting,
fixing my hair
again,
and again.

And maybe you’ll never know
how deep trauma runs through my blood.
For even if I try
to gather it all
in words,
my throat would betray—
and lie.