Little feet trampling across the floor
Little hands swinging thru the air
Little voices raising as the adventure unfolds
Little eyes bright with beginnings

I was certain of the world with little feet, little hands, a little voice, and little eyes.

The world I believed in with just a little hope.

It is not often that I am
awake.
Eyes are open, but the view is aerial.
The mind in autopilot,
the body moves automatically.
A spectator to my own life,
Control eludes me.
Until suddenly,
I have a glimpse.
Consciousness grows.
My hands grasp
At the opportunity, Unwilling to let go.
I plunge into darkness.
Willing to submit to defeat.
The first conscious decision.
And, the last
as my autonomy
gradually
Drifts.

My head rests on your chest,
listening to the breath that is inhaled
in and out.
Mine just tightens
as I close my eyes and dream
that you loved me.
Hours earlier,
we are locked in sweat and moans.
Your eyes meet mine as you lean forward
and kiss me until I am yours.
You know what you want.
And I whimper in disbelief of the lack of more. "But don't you feel it too?"
You look at me, "of course I feel something.
But not enough to change what I want. And remember I don't fall."
I close my eyes
as I am swept in body heat and caresses.
My heart beats with a hollow sound
that my mind masks
with a dream of your demise.
You don't fall?
Well, I hope you trip as you chase me
when I leave.
But for now, I continue to fall asleep
to the rhythm of your breath
and the fantasy of your affection.

Each second of your tardiness just emphasizes how much you don't give a ****.

I use to be envious
of those who say
they don’t fall in love,
of those who can control
their emotions.
But then,
what a colorless life.
I fall as hard as a tree,
every time.
A new face, a new love, a new shade
of sensation that I chase
like butterflies in a meadow.
And when it’s over,
my life feels like a storm of disappointment
only to see the sun peak over the clouds
with hope.
I used to be envious
of those who never dealt with the storms.
But then, they never got to see the sun either.

I ask myself what I'm doing here
in a room filled with friends and family
who are strangers sipping on my beer.

I laugh, trying to conceal
the scars as the subject
comes up for why I ignore him.
He is family after all.
My smile begins to fall.

It doesn't matter how old the wound is;
the mere mention of him
makes my mood shift.

"Let the past be the past" they claim. I am.
"What's your problem?" I have none.
Leave me alone.
Three drinks in and there I am, hiding.

Playing my favorite game of hide and seek
when he finds me.
Telling me if I was really quiet
He wouldn't tag me out.
Three years old and I didn't even shout.

I open my eyes when it's over,
unsure of what game this was
when I mention it to my parents.
But who believes the word of a toddler
over a seventeen year old
who has a reason for everything.

No one wants to see the bad or even acknowledge it.
So we make excuses.
"Kids do that. It's a joke. It's exaggerated."
Well, it happened.

No one talks about it as it sits as a lump under the rug.
Everyone tip toes around afraid of the dirt that will come up.
They look at me as if I am the one that caused this pile.
Why because I don't say hi?

I am not mad anymore.
Not mad at how they handled it.
Or how they acknowledge it now only in whispers.
Or even how every time he sees me he runs in the other direction
spewing gossip to try and tear me down.
I am not even mad at myself for staying quiet
or shutting my eyes instead of fighting.

"Let the past be the past," they claim. I am.
"What's your problem?" I have none,
because I am the lotus growing out of the mud
and no one
will ever force me to do anything again.

Not even to say "hi."