fake fragments

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


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