the pain of growing up
was the sprain of your calves
and the strain of your bones.
was the transformed moraine of your flesh grain
into this bizarre kid-grownup preordain.
was the hurricane inside your veins
as you crawled in your mama's arms
and let her pressed a kiss against your temples
and trawled her fingers through your hair,
tucking your head under her chin.
your windpipe tightened as you balled
into your mama's tight embrace,
and you tried not to bawl your eyes out
while you listened to the small, muted beats
of her heart, drawing you asleep.
regrets were only temporary novocaine,
but what would you give to return to the plain plane
you once disdain.
every time you had to leave home again,
your body ached — your arms, your shoulders, your legs.
begging for just another day
in this isolated paradise
of childhood and innocence.
even enclosed within this miniature cut-off haven terrain
in your mama's arms,
you were contained far from reality,
refrained by the harsh, unkind world
and restrained against the merciless flow of time.
yet the sustained, quiet ache remained.
the pain of growing up never waned.
instead, it made a home in your brain
and gnawed alive the longer you remained.
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