I am the Girl in the Little Yellow Room

I am the girl in the little yellow room.
“Not anymore,” you say,
But all I can do is cry.
“It’s time to leave, so take what you can carry
Because we have to go before we’re caught leaving.”
Again.
My school papers and books and games are everywhere,
Evidence that my queendom was ransacked,
And you shout at me to take what I can carry.
I want to carry all of it.
All of these things are things of me.
My brain did these school papers.
My hands did these paintings.
It was me who got Chutes and Ladders for my birthday,
But I can’t carry them all.
So I sit in the middle of the wreckage,
Unable to choose the pieces of me to keep
And the pieces to leave behind.
I am the girl in the little yellow room.
All of the things here are things of me.
“You have to pick something. Or nothing. I don’t care,”
You say as you pass my doorway,
“Or don’t take anything. But we’re leaving.”
We don’t have the money to stay.
We cannot afford to keep my little yellow room,
Nor to take all the things of me with us.
I give up in a moment of numbness,
Take some school papers, Curious George, my Chutes and Ladders, and a pillow,
And my legs carry some of me to the truck.
Not all of me, though, because many of the things of me
Remain in the little yellow ransacked room.

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About BearsGrl8

I'm a geek, a "Supernatural" fangirl, a progressive, an introverted loud-mouth, a damn fine cook, a Bears fan, a Blackhawks fan, and a fantastic aunt.

Posted on September 8, 2014, in Growing Up, On Being a Woman, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. So I sit in the middle of the wreckage,
    Unable to choose the pieces of me to keep
    And the pieces to leave behind.

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