What an odd thing it is to be
somehow both a child and grown
yet never being either; or anything else.
Working all day, to accomplish my not-dreams
heavy-a-burden wrapped in my name

My mother tells me about "the real world"
and how I will never survive
The past dismissed as a childhood game
of tall tales, heartbreak, and mere make-believe.

I am lost in what that little girl would think
of the woman, I apparently will never come to be.
Her blue eyes, blond hair, three left feet,
chubby hands, toothy smiles, and head of daydreams.

Would she be proud of the strength I've shown?
Disappointed to learn that it was required?
Mourn for my once-future and how it is now out of reach?
Or cheer with sticky hands for the surprises, now received?

Once more, to start with, or even yet again
Will I be asked these impossible things?
At what point do I learn whatever lesson
gives the answer I am enslaved by?

And is the lesson even worth it?
Does it ever even matter?
If the exchange for my growth
is a disdainful reminder
of how little I know