(written in February 2009)
I sit cross-legged on the floor
Writing about my toes, my ankles, my legs
While children sleep around me.
I get to the innocence between my legs
And suddenly feel uncomfortable.
I crumple under uncertainty,
Close my journal, and grow small.
Soon I am young enough to be a peer
Of the sleeping children.
But still I am too unsure of myself to call out,
to wake them up so we can play.
So I grow smaller still,
Until I am too little to know
What it feels like to not fit in.
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