There are children on my doorstep.
Dollar store sheets with holes drape their
Bodies,
And the child breeze lifts their giggles
Up
Into the air.
One after the other
They flock to my door,
An army of moths drawn
To my flame.
Why is it my flame they seek?
My flame that so inconsistently pops,
So rarely sparkles.
I do not don a ballgown,
Or zombie makeup,
Nor sport an astronaut’s suit.
How could I, when the explorer has been
Beaten down by
Double taps and ‘friends’?
How can I when the stomach that once
Hungered
For knowledge has been quelled b
‘Play next’ and ‘study sessions’?
How can I feel beautiful,
When the world tells me that
It’s what’s on the inside that
Counts?
I long to laugh,
To be loved,
For my biggest worry to be whether I’ll
Get a bigger candy bar than my friend.
But for now it seems,
I am just another infant
Learning how to speak.