Calliope Crashed

Vocal chords are stiff. Feels like brittle sandpaper. Irritated and inflamed, I long to return to bed. I can’t though. I’ve grown up. Responsibility beckons. I am all painted faces now and stern words and motherly intentions. Despite all of this “adult thinking,” the child within continues to thrive. 

She wishes to be held. Wants her best friend with his chuckling forget-me-not laugh to envelope her. The girl yearns for hot tea spiked with honey; she yearns for the security of he that remains silent. There isn’t any time for that though. His thoughts are wandering. Barely focused on her figure. In the reflection of his horned rimmed glasses she fades in and out like a ghost. 

I often wonder if I’ll ever be substantial to anyone. If my body (however broken) could be embraced. Could I be taken care of? Cuddled beneath warm cotton sheets while someone nuzzles into my neck? Could it happen? Can it happen? And why can it not be you? I wonder this all the time until the stars fade out like movie credits. Shows over kid, the night sky says. Go home. 

At the moment, I have no home. Yours is a house locked to me. I am no criminal, so I won’t break in. I’ve got nothing to steal but your heart, and I’d rather you gave that willingly. Its a gift. I (she) that little child has it on her Christmas list. It is the one present she’ll probably never unwrap. 

It’s seven-twenty in the morning. Working day is coming. Is here. I sweat underneath my blouse. Loose liquid perspiration dampens my brow. I should really be asleep. I should really be with you. I should really do and have a lot of things that I don’t. I am a woman without; I am a youth forgotten. I am a little girl lost.