I read Roald Dahl and let the music of his words synchronize with my own
Child’s heartbeat.
In class 5, we all wished to be like Matilda.

Chalked names on the playground tarmac: mean kids, unkind teachers,
Befitting punishments.
In class 5, we all had vivid imaginations.

Wet breaks- rain drizzled down windows as our words dripped from one sheet
To the next
Wicked, terrible tricks to try and test.

Graduating to R.L.Stine, Swindells, and Morpurgo, the Age of Neglected Child
Ended abruptly.
Wiser, class 5 didn’t want Wormwood-parents.

But my strings were in your hands and the show went on. In the expedition to be like Matilda
I became

Matilda.

I stand on the brink of parenthood. Surreal to think a child’s melody exists inside the echo of my own
thud.

If only movies were real and the blink of an eye could erase it all, on that
condition lies the fate of my
unborn.

But I know not how to fix the warped sense of parenthood that Roald Dahl
himself failed to
cure.

Instead, I watch time run short. Water seeping out of a cracked tumbler.
The end
Creeps nearer yet you are intent on staying in role

Ever so faithful to your character, reminding me daily of the little worth of little girls,
and how daughters are to be disposed of at the earliest convenience.

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