Only Child

Being an only child is begging your parents for a scrap of attention.
Play with me! Play with me!
Look at what I made!
I’ll do better next time, promise!
Can you please just stay?

Are you mad at me?
Oh no.
I’m sorry,
I’ll be quiet!
I didn’t mean to make you mad.
Your reply an angry sigh, and-
I’m sorry,
I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed
to ask for your hand.
I think I might need someone to guide me.
But all I have is this empty space beside me.
Or maybe the empty space was inside me,
all along…

I wonder,
What did I do wrong?
Was I too loud?
Was I supposed to know what to do?
Is that how others taught you too?
If this is all I get I’m screwed.

My dreams dissolve into darkness and mush.
Did I really ask you both for too much?
Is it really that disgusting?
This want to be touched?
I can go somewhere else,
Be a little bit bold.
But when that stranger touched my body,
My head suddenly felt cold.

Now when you touch me I visibly flinch.
That also makes you mad,
so I hold it,
I pinch.
These feelings are building,
They’re out of control,
But there’s no room for feeling,
So I pinch,
and I hold.

I still want some things,
But I’m learning to fold.
Feel somewhat stifled
by the story I’m told.
I’m scared that my building
breaks out of this mold.
Why do I feel tired
when I do as I’m told?