Go away, petulant child.
Why have you come here?
Child who says no,
baby contrarian.
Child who giggles and begins,
then stomps his feet
and throws his toys away.

Go away,
child who twists the heads from dolls
and demands more dolls.
Go away, hollow laughter
sneering shrieking
and fingers
bitten raw with anger.

Deep breaths like rustling papers
remember that you are the fear
that has voice,
which comes from my mouth
a sandpaper whisper.
You are the needle
that pricks the vein
and the tiny bubble
that steals light
and will
and leaves
contempt and revulsion.

Shake and stammer
quietly, head lowered.
Sweat and sarcasm and
apologies.
And shame.
And waste.

Child,
I sit and stand
and stare through glassy eyes
at life I am not living,
and will not live.
I taste tears in the back of my throat.
I spit out resignation.
I hate you.

Petulant child,
you take my hands
and my eyes
and my mouth
and my heart.
And I am left nothing
but aching, gasping
want -
thirty four years
of shame and waste
and disappointment
and an insignificant soul
that rattles like dry leaves
in the bottom of an empty moving box.