She follows me, lingering,
A shadow of a person,
A whisper of a life.
The pale greys of her complexion,
They're haunting, they're horrifying,
And her small stature, is slightly less so.
Constantly by my side, is this tiny ghost,
She's screaming out, crying,
Begging for the innocence,
She was never granted.
She wears a tattered sundress,
Covered in butterflies of blues and greens,
And it falls just below,
Her darkened, scraped knees.
She howls out in pain,
Pleading to feel wonder and joy,
Just, one, more, time.
Always is she grabbing at me,
Yearning for attention,
But I never let
Her wispy grey fingers, grab hold.
Here she is, a wraith, a ghost,
An image of someone, after their death.
The crying child, the wraith in my room,
The little one begging,
To be young again.
I've learned to tune out her cries,
If I were to give her, the attention she craves,
I would have to grow up,
And face the maturity forced upon me.
If I were to give her,
The attention she deserves,
I would have to admit,
That, the little girl,
With the scraped knees, and butterfly dress,
That, that little, sweet girl,
Within me,
Is dead.
- C.c