the higher my age climbs
the more i feel like that little kid again
staring into the mirror, wearing their
parents’ clothes;
a first attempt at performance,
roleplay.
those two numbers seem oversized,
daunting and ill-fitting
too grown for my
tiny body, tiny heart, tiny brain,
tiny ability, tiny understanding,
tiny sense of self.
i cannot fill the sleeves of my father’s jacket
i cannot stand confidently in my mother’s heels
i’ve barely transcended toddling,
and my hollow translucent arms are too short to
reach the shelves of Adulthood.
(i’m not a daughter or a son
i’m a child.)