it’s getting harder to stretch out in child’s pose

on some days, child’s pose comes naturally. / too naturally. / so naturally that when i scowl at my miniature limbs folding and resting in tandem, in harmony, / i catch my reflection in the mirror / and see immaturity throwing a tantrum back to my face. /

on other days, / the ones that fill my ears with my heart’s irregularity, / i find my limbs to be too large, too awkward / to crease and extend at my will. / they’ve outgrown parts of me and filled others to bursting. / these are the days when my eyelashes caress my cheek and i flail inside myself, / knocking on doors and begging for anyone, anyone / to tell me where i’m going. / (soon enough, i realize that there’s only one door, the door to my mouth, and i keep circling back to it.) / i can only remind myself of where i’ve been, and on these days, / that’s not nearly enough. /

it’s on these days / that i long to shrink / to the point where i can’t think. / it’s on these days / that i long to rhyme rhyme rhyme till no two words aren’t friends / rhyme rhyme rhyme till my heart breathes content. / it’s on these days that i wish i could spend the hours till dusk / just tracing the plaster on my wall and laughing when i find a face there. / it’s on these days / that i realize monotony / isn’t signing its letters with ‘love’ anymore. / 

monotony only meets me now wearing procrastination, me with my arms pinned open to the inevitable. / because darling, our arguments don’t stop time even if i beg. / (we used to be childhood friends. never again, never again. monotony grew bitter with me.) / and it’s only a matter of when that sugared boredom and unfiltered time that i try to steal back--

(forgive me, forgive me. / but should i know blame for reaching to reach behind? / after all, i can only remind myself of where i’ve been. / i say that this. this. this is the present, / but before the last ‘t’ in present has left my lips, it’s the past that takes the letter)

--will unmask and unsweeten, tipping my chin up to plunge their hands down my throat, / tugging on worn arteries and pumping my weary heart / till its beating’s beating, whichever beating comes first, / fills my ears once more. /