Karissa Satchwell Four Awhile

i did not want to be four years old again
with 'poor baby' glances aimed at my face
i used to tell my mother i would run away
but i was never that brave and lacking bus fare
i spent the time in forts built underneath thick blankets
top bunk with glossy eyed animals who i made talk to me

i use words like 'fine' and 'nothing' now
with those animals sleeping still in my closet
with a faded blanket curled inside my hand
because i hate sleeping alone though i always have

i wanted to be a writer an actress a tap dancer

i write poems almost every week
most of them end up with jagged pen scratches
i act like it doesnt bother me that plates and mirrors make me shake
and i tap tap fingers like a pulse against the table
hoping like im four years old to grasp his attention for a second

so i could show him that the monsters once near my bed
have moved in and follow my feet when i least expect it