i can’t ride a bike
i’m afraid
of bloody knees
and wobbly tires
of pedaling uphill
and gliding downhill
of falling down and
“get back up again”
mom keeps telling me
“let’s go practice this weekend”
i don’t want to see that encouraging look on her face
she doesn’t get
how embarrassing this is
that clunky helmet
those uneven training wheels
when people catch us in the parking lot
they smile
as if it isn’t
pathetic to be a ten-year-old on training wheels
this skill isn’t necessary
it’s expected
when my friend is bored
when she pulls out two bikes
she’s disappointed
and echoes to everyone who will listen
“she can’t ride a bike”
people say
it’s easy
“just like riding a bike”
i can’t tie my shoes
everyone keeps telling me nonsense
about bunny ears and wrapping around
i punish mom with angry
tears when she sits me on the floor
one shoe
staring it down
at the shoe store
we search for velcro sneakers
as if the sound isn’t deafening
when i strap them on next to my classmates
their hands full of strings
i’m the only kindergartener with no shoe badge
i can’t climb the monkey bars
i’m the only one
whose arms don’t
support her body weight
all the other
girls dangle their feet
sitting on top of the yellow bars
i can’t see anything
but the bottoms of their shoes
i can’t hear anything
but their laughter from above
i sit on the swings
trying not to look over
trying to swing as high
as the monkey bars
that i don’t see when my friend falls
and the bone in her arm sticks out
but she gets a purple cast that
everyone signs
and when it heals
she climbs back up
leaving me on the ground