childhood is a broken glass; fragments on the floor and on the table
like paint on chubby fingers that want to reach for glasses
like they reach for maman and mimic older brothers
like when in the park we do this because he wanted it and i am having fun because we are together
i won’t remember this or i might but is it real?
childhood is unreliable in recalling events and getting us to learn but it makes us us
and we are us in a way that is unique.
not like a snowflake. or maybe together as unique flakes we are the snow that blows and makes my chubby cheeks cold during this recess i don’t even want to have.
why am i outside with miserable adults that police and guard the gates of this facility like a prison
or an institution of the mind that will grow and fade with old experiences. like embarrassing events that make us feel bad, our friends and our manners shape us
parents are afraid of change but we change all the time and it goes so fast it feels fake
you can’t tell what happens. your lense is dirty just like mine
but we’re looking at different things
and i see through the car window as you drive my life because i’m unreliable little child