that little girl

That little girl in the corner. You all take the time to mourn

Her while I, seem to be the only person who realises she’s still

Here. Living in fear somewhere deep inside my chest but we’re

Both trying our very best to keep her hidden. She comes out

At night. When the bedside light is the only positive glow

There to comfort either of us and she, just needs someone

To talk to. And that’s okay, because so do I. We’ll lie there,

Staring up at the sky we can’t see because of the ceiling

Baring down heavy and we’ll exchange war stories. Detail

Our histories. And she’ll tell me that mum is upset again, and

She doesn’t know why, but by default, dad has told her that

It’s her fault and parents don’t lie. Sweetie, they do. It’s a

Truth I don’t have the heart to tell. That little girl, it’s like

Looking into a mirror; a mirror with chubbier cheeks and

Hair a bit thinner than the tangled mane that trails behind

My hunched over ego but a mirror, nevertheless. She’s so

Pretty in her sunflower sun dress, pouring out her poor

Childhood issues into a box of tissues and into my eager

Ears, where I will unknowingly absorb those fears and

Transfer them into my adult life without fully realising

What’s happened. Until she asks me if I ever get blamed.

Suddenly my bravery is tamed. My heart slips into some kind

Of arrest, even though I’m desperately trying by best to

Be the brave grown up. But I’m not. Her miniature hand

Slips into mine and delivers an over-familiar squeeze as

She pulls herself up onto her knees and burrows back

Into my chest. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. I guess.