I spent years

stuffing emotions

into my legs,

like they were the privileged

king-sized sleeping bag

with only a single-sized slip cover.

The lack of internal space

screams at me

today

like a neglected garden.

Rocks lay strewn

in tombstone piles

for the dead weeds of the past,

tiny memorials for the children

who wandered the home hungry

confused and seeking comfort.

At forty now, I lie in bed,

eat snacks,

and feel.

My legs teem with the wild fish

of the present,

fighting to make it upstream,

swimming hard for the paths

down my face,

flailing past the flashing teeth

of my protector,

shimmering into the unknown.