Life in the High Chair

I think the experiences from which I write are uninteresting.

I am still a child,
all the beautiful things I find
don't make me something,
I should know
but I am still a child.

I am still a child,
I look up to you,
the women in front of me
who think more broadly,
guided by the restrictions
of their societal decisions,
making me think of a time
when I will be restricted
as such
with marriage, children,
financial autonomy,
quarrels, fights, decisions
that effect the people I love
surrounding the core of my shell,
I know nothing of this
but of drugs and alcohol
and the slight appearance of sex
as I am still a child.

I am still a child,
I cry for my mother,
my home, for good people,
because I still believe that
if I just keep breathing
everything will be fine.

I am still a child,
spending effort on needless treasures
and not putting any thought
into how right now
will affect the future.

I am still a child,
only beginning to learn
how to take care of my body,
my brain,
how to put limits
on my expectations, indulgences,
racing for the moment I will stop,
instead of resting.