found the little notches on the wall,
marking the years I grew taller,
ran my thumb along the pencil scrawl
rubbing dates into the plaster
headed out into the backyard,
under the frangipani
raised my chin to clear my clouded heart
casting thoughts into the trees
it's not kind, to hold on to tight
loosen your grip, your knuckles are turning white
it'll be alright, my inner child
a kiss on your brow and you'll make it through the night, the night
saw the shadow pass across her face,
fading a moment later
seeing figures crawling through the place
gasping awake, always in chaos
it's not your fault little one
that guilt is just one of your vices
it's not your job little one,
we'll keep on hiding behind our devices,
it's not kind, to hold on to tight
loosen your grip, your knuckles are turning white
it'll be alright, my inner child
a kiss on your brow and you'll make it through the night, the night