Toys Instead of Touch

Some people give what shines because they never learned how to give what stays. Not every act of love knows how to touch.

She came
roughly once a month.
Hair done.
Smile tight.
Perfume like someone else’s house.

Her footsteps always sounded like leaving,
even when she walked in.

I watched her from the window
like a kid watching weather.
You never know what it’s bringing,
but you pretend you’re glad it came.

She waved too early,
like the visit was already over.
Like we were both just playing our parts
in a short film
no one would watch twice.

She didn’t ask
how I was sleeping.
Didn’t ask
what I’d eaten.
Didn’t notice
the bruise on my arm
or the plate still in the sink
from Friday.

Just handed me a box
with laser guns
and flashing lights,
like blinking plastic
could make up for fingerprints.
Like noise
could undo the quiet
she left me in.

The toys were expensive.
The questions were cheap.
And I learned early
how to smile with full hands
and an empty chest.

She’d kneel beside me,
just long enough
to show my father she cared.
Just long enough
to feel like a guest
who brought a gift
but stayed on her feet.

Then leave
before the batteries ran out.
Before I remembered
I was alone again.

I stopped asking
where she went.
Started naming the action figures
things I needed to hear.
Things like
stay,
you matter,
I see you.

They never left.
Never smelled like departure.
Never looked past me
like I was a window.

Sometimes I think
she believed
she was doing right by me.
That an hour
and a receipt
could replace a presence.

That as long as I smiled,
she was forgiven.

But nothing she gave me
ever learned how to hold me back.
Nothing she gave me
ever stayed past the switch.

And when I got older,
I noticed,
she only touched the box.
Never me.

I’ve poured everything into this. Healing Thoughts II: 33 Poems and Meditations for Emotional Renewal is up for order now. These pages carry the deepest, sharpest work I’ve done, and I can’t wait for them to be in your hands.

Thanks for staying till the end.
Most people don’t.
I notice it every time someone makes it this far. Through the noise, through the pain, through the part that asks for honesty instead of comfort. I don’t take it for granted.

Your presence keeps this alive.
If you ever want to go deeper, beyond the bruise, into what still moves underneath, the doors are open below. Every poem, every sound, every small act of support helps the work keep breathing in the dark.

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