the mask begins to crack,
and he now sees me for who I am,
who I have always been:
impulsive, young, needy, childish;
a little girl.
But the race for freedom
has just begun,
two thousand miles out of California
but the clock is still ticking.
I am still singing loud and off-key,
changing radio stations,
complaining, whining,
being a teenage girl
(being a little girl);
I am not being
the woman that he needs.
No, because I am dancing drunk,
misplacing his expansive items,
and then laughing irresponsibly.
I am only acting my age.
I am a little girl.
I cannot grow up,
find a job,
make his dreams come true.
I am just his girlfriend,
selfishly biding my time,
convincing him that I love him,
even though he is growing old
of this little girl.
Stubborn as a child,
I stay put through every punch,
every slap, every degrading word.
He tries everything to move me,
then gives up on changing me,
aging me, because
I am a little girl.
All along I am
giving kisses away to other men,
because I am not confident;
I am a little girl who hates herself.
As always,
this love of ours
has long since dried out.
But I am still immature as a child,
and he is unable to pretend anymore,
he will not longer pretend
that things will work out fine.
He is a grown man,
not complaining, whining, or immature.
He knows that
his little woman (girl)
will not change,
will not age...
With cupids double edged arrow,
he stabbed fate into our hands;
annd innoceance bled out from mine.
After he died
so did that little girl.
I am a woman
and I have changed.