[NaPoWriMo poem #8.]
The Uncomfortable Act of Waiting
"I want to be something you can control," he said, and I curl into his lap without hesitation, slide my face against a white shirt that's seen better days. My fate rests in the hands of faceless committees, my paperwork lying on tables, the pages quiet and small when I am no such thing. I twirl a balloon string in my small hands and think of thousands waiting just as I am now, smoking cigarettes fifty feet away from the nearest building, reaching for glasses of Bordeaux, endlessly refreshing web pages, anything to keep from losing it. I am not doing so well in that regard at the moment, I think, as tears well up again. My hair is petted, smoothed down. Gentle rocking pulls me away from my worry.