Your hair like soft feathers,
Your heart is pure peace,
You've captivated everyone,
Our obsession won't cease.
Your supple cheeks and fingers long,
Your meek and loving soul.
A pure sunrise, our little lamb
Each heart you touch, you hold.
Long eyelashes tied in loose bow ties,
Tiny creases between cerulean sea eyes,
Cotton cap hugging your baby doll ears,
Moonlight dazzles, we cry happy tears.
When you go to sleep in a room clouded by a heavy smog of resentment, sometimes you wake up and the space has cleared. Other times, you flutter your eyelids and think, "Am I still angry? Why yes, yes I am."
"Oh, how thrilling!” they’d burst upon discovering that Mickey Mouse signed my paychecks. “That must be so fulfilling, so magical! Your parents must be so proud!” The truth is, it was fulfilling, and they were proud, but there was something about that question, “Where do you work?” that pretzeled my insides.
Little boys, who believe with their whole hearts, bouncing around in cotton pajamas. Shimmering lights on sturdy trees. Packages cinched exquisitely with glossy, gold ribbon.