I am a child. You bring out the child in me.

I am vulnerable, out of control involuntarily.

I cringe. I hide. I panic. I chide myself. I plead.

Please don’t make me show this shame. Please

don’t make me bleed. I do not want to own this

part so please don’t make me name it. I’d rather

cut it out or find some hopeless way to tame it.

But its shrillness in my chest is like my heart

being picked out; in hollow, rasping drawn out

breaths to short and shallow shouts. So please, I

beg you, spare me; do not bare me in this fashion.

I cringe. I hide. I panic. I chide myself. I plead

with passion. Don’t.