The dust flies up in piles, unwanted. 

Coating my eyes in a layer of grit, of oblivion. 

The grass is freshly cut, 

just like at home. 

Home. 

You took me to my first baseball game, 

a real major league game. 

You bought me a hotdog. 

My underdeveloped tastebuds devoured the mysterious meat product. 

I lost a tooth that game. 

You told me the tooth fairy would bring me a gift, 

naïve, young. I believed you. 

 

I am small, lost in a sea of drunken men, sweaty. 

The smell of stale beer fills the metallic bleachers. 

It feels as if we are a world away 

from home plate. 

A gust of excitement flutters through the veins of the men, 

just like you. 

You bellow for the team you claim as yours. 

My mind, young, naïve, 

I stand close to you, 

screaming at the top of my lungs. 

 

The floor is sticky, 

my shoes squeak as I walk back to you. 

Flirting, with a woman who is not my 

Mother. 

Her head flies back as you whisper something in her ear, 

it must have been funny. 

Your eyes swirl with lust, I look down at my pink sneakers. 

I have been told, I am too young, just too naïve to understand. 

 

A baseball game, a memory. 

Lonely. 

I believed you when you said you would change. 

I do not eat hot dogs anymore, 

I do not believe in the tooth fairy. 

Grass, no longer green, grown out. 

A field uncared for. 

Forgotten by the ones that claimed to love 

the game.