I walk my neighbourhood slower, with a tender observation,

I never bothered when I called it my block.

I pass a girl, maybe five, blowing bubbles as she twirls- 

Unaware of even my passing. Unaware of the world. 

I wonder from where my affinity, or longing, for adolescence, stems. 

What it means.

But how is one to be carefree, and also be condemned?

Why moments of child like innocence, 

Full body laughs, and dress up, 

Parent shaped caresses, take me in, and wrap me up. 

A closet is far too small to play in,

To be a kid, to grow up.

I became familiar with shame too soon.

An honest child, always ate what I was fed. 

That year I was promised my very own room,

But with my guilt, I’d share the bed. 

So maybe that’s why, now, having my bruises kissed,

Feels like a pocket in time. 

Feels like getting something back I didn’t realize I’d lost.

Only one person can fit in a closet.

What’s it like talking through a door?

A child’s voice closer to a whisper.

Eyes squeezed tightly, 

Dandelion seeds blow in the wind. Let me in. 

Knock knock knock 

Are you hiding?

Knock knock knock

Are you there? Are you scared? 

The seasons changed- did you notice? 

I see you’ve aged, out of focus. 

Underexposed. Performing a portrait. 

What do you really look like?

I feel younger now in many ways than I ever have.

They say the clock restarts when you come out. 

I feel awkward like a teenager; in altered, subdued, shades. 

Different paintings side by side, but the figures all the same. 

Without the braces, but my ears still blush when I’m embarrassed.

I look for missing ribs, at last my heart has room to pump.

But my anatomy––  unchanged. 

(It was the door against my chest—

Here is where I remember, what I had to forget.

 — all along.)

. . .

Creak

Eyes adjusting to the light, out of focus.

The sunlight filters through the trees, 

Painting a portrait.

— Will you tell me it’s okay, over milk that you warmed. 

Rub my stomach, braid my hair . . 

I’m learning love is unarmed.