Inner child

Both these things made her feel milky coffee sick;

the half- filled application forms, scattered,

the dried black ink on her tattered sheet’s.

                                 She’d always abandon them,

with her heart sore like a fist hammering,

wanting to be released

she imagined it small like a child’s

dripping in watered down blood

punching from behind her left breast

to remind her;

                      she best watch herself

and remember

                     who she is

she is not

                     capable

never will be.

Yet.

Maybe

this intruder inside,

this clenched fist of a child

was her.

It could no longer be

              shushed

or

               cajoled

back to sleep.