Little Adult, Little Girl
When I was a little girl,
mama put me in a silky pink dress.
I was the princess of the family.
Their glory.
When I am a little adult,
I remove everything and lay myself bare.
I am the mouse in the household.
Their shame.
When I was a little girl,
papa carried me on his shoulder.
I would reach for the highest flower
and pick it for him to smell.
When I am a little adult,
boys carry me to the bedroom.
I would reach for the faintest lamp
and trace a smile on his back.
When I was a little girl,
me and brother shot nerf guns.
We splashed, swirled, swam
in the magnificent pool.
When I am a little adult,
brother would shoot me piercing glances.
We smack, whack, spank
louder than the kitchen sink.
When I was a little girl,
I was posed to take the best photo
from morning till night.
I thought I were once an immortal statue.
When I am a little adult,
I run naked in front of the mirror
from night to dawn.
I thought I were a beast gone wild.
When I was a little girl,
they called me little miss sunshine.
I radiated with joy,
beamed with laughter.
When I am a little adult,
they call me troubled thunderstorm.
I break down with tears,
scream with hysteria.
When I was a little girl,
I was not afraid.
Things happened, good or bad,
I forgot and went on skipping ropes.
When I am a little adult,
I am so afraid.
Everything has happened, good and bad,
I caught each one of them, glued to the past.
When I was a little girl,
I was a little adult;
When I am a little adult,
I am a little girl.
Copyright © Helen Cheng | Year Posted 2016
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