Dead Children

Some things never change
but the way you are inside
does.
I’m not sure how it happens.
Gradually, maybe.
Like a song for sore ears
or chapped lips made for speaking softly.
Change
is like stripping away raw skin
as it tears off the bone
I’m not sure what to make of it
when drowning is the only way I know how to swim
when dragging is the only way I know how to walk.
Buddy, take a load off here on this burning planet
Buddy, take a swig of this here fantasy juice
as I squeeze your eyeballs until they bleed reality.
Change
is not unlike loose change left on sticky sidewalks
the underbelly of greased metal and twigs.
This change starts in the belly
stings like jellyfish talons
and quills it’s lullabies in black ink
thick and tearful, I swim and sink
with sore lips and chapped ears
I fail to listen;
I fail to hear.
My intercurrents waver
like water, they quiver
intermingling thoughts that spit in silver
murmuring sliver in the night.
With wings so ratty
tarnished and grey
was there ever a moment in the morning
where I woke
and wished it was bedtime?
Some things never change
But the way you look
does.
Are we the same people we were as children?
Or did the child die the moment we grew up?