Half Child

Hidden child.
Half child.
It makes no difference which.
They both apply to me.
I stay inside, and hide from the source.
The sun, the stars, and the moon, all noise to me.

It's getting old, I meant to tell you.
The waste I must pass through,
each and every time I decide to broach the light.
Too much debris.
It has fallen in my way, blocking my path.
I try to kick it away. I try to push it from my face.
The debris is constant, allegiant.

It squeezes in the walls of every room I must pass through.
It makes it impossible to find my way.
It makes it impossible to take a breath.
I have to step over it.
Sift through it.
Too much work for a child.

Half child never moves.
Hidden child never finds the light.
Makes no difference which.
They both apply
to me.