Those Who Linger

I want to poetize the grim faces
I've been pressed upon,
without printing descriptions
that yell of imagery
yet speak little of raw days
and when I was painted
onto your life, your dream.

I used to think I was the one
who needed the fairytales and
nursery rhymes coddled like
I had no one else I could flourish
with.

But I see these fears that
are original hopes,
something stunted by
time's untried sessions.

Because not everyone,
like I, can brush their hair
till it mirrors a fable,

I've lived in lies too long-

you, my child, are the one
who can barely peer out
mewling
"where'd you go?"

You don't know yet that
lying to yourself will not
make your arms more warm,
or more secure-

all you know is that lies
would be better, perhaps,
then no one showing up
to take you home

Lies could be like that
loud bird you cross whilst
traveling home, telling you
you aren't that lonely,
but that you're far
far away....

I get to look at my mother
every morning and say
I have the biggest kind of
blessing-
I can sit and wait for my
father to come home and
ask if I need anything...

but others don't have expectations
worth risking more breaths on.

And I wish someone would sing
you a song, child, not just me,
who has only shared a dream
with you once upon that braided
villa,

you need to know your questions
won't go down the well,
that mother can face your silence
with sober glances
and that father,

that he will understand how
a girl can hurt like a woman,
how she needs men to bring
her flowers on rainy days,

and ask nothing for return.

Someday, little girl, carry me
a sack full of photographs,
and tell me if you've found

the answer yet.

Written August 8, 2012 at 1:25 am.
* meant this is a brevity piece at first to challenge myself but I really got into this tale of the girl, the more I thought it up. Thanks for reading, critique appreciated!