Shadows looming over puddles
When I was six, I was afraid that I'd be chastised by an annoyed
Mother on stepping home wearing my dirty
Frock dripping, courtesy the inviting puddles, warm,
Brown and for the lack of words, can I say 'splash-worthy'?
Now, under cloud scattered skies I wear a perpetual frown,
Swearing at the umbrella forgotten at home. Remnants of smiles that creep
from the nostalgia of the petrichor; they die almost instantly, as I'm vexed by the prospect
Of ruining my designer jeans in the puddles, swimming hideous and knee-deep.
When I was six I was afraid of sleeping alone in a gloomy
Pitch black room. On nights that my mother tried to coax me
Into it, I'd slip out from between her arms and run to the full view of the
Grown-Ups. And bawl my lungs out till I got to chose where i'd sleep.
Now when I get home at night, I forget, sometimes even refuse
To turn the lights on. I stare at my ceiling, a topsy-turvy collage of dreams,
Some still wrapped and ribbon-ed, some worn-off and cast away.
Then I cry, quietly, uncertainly, into my arm, hoping no one hears my screams.