She hides in the crammed attic of my childhood
memories, behind the old wood dresser
with white drawers and orange knobs
where I kept my collection of conch shells –
those filled with waves of ocean whispers
crashing against the silence of my bedroom
on Sunday evenings.
Longing to be found, she sits on the cold floor
curled up; her glassy eyes scream
in the darkness enveloping her
like a cloak too big for her nine-year-old body.
Yet, no tears run down her cheeks,
no sobs escape her lips. Subdued they’ve been
by layer upon layer of neglect.
I’ve paid for my negligence, though.
I’ve cried her thwarted tears,
I’ve shaken with her choked-back sobs.
I’ve been a puppet of a girl puppeteer
tangled in strings she cannot control.
She pulls; I hang;
She yanks; I yank back
‘till sore and breathless,
we hug, sitting on the cold floor
curled up, behind the old wood dresser
with white drawers and orange knobs.
We meet each other’s eyes,
glassy eyes, whose voice will no more be hushed.