inner child

the memories nag and chafe

at my core -

crippled,

I fight full surrender

night 

and day, and

night: the young girl stands 

naked before me 

in my wakeful dreams

alone and cold, she already knows

not to wait on a warm blanket;

she's always known the world

is a cold, cold place;

knows nothing of soft spots

on which to land her tired mind,

signs of strain visible

in her blueberry eyes

            relief, release

is what she wants, and here I am

four decades later, asking

would you like a ginger tea?

while my lips attempt soft words

that hang hopelessly,

helplessly.