Carry Me To Bed, Tuck Me In

I grew up when I realized 

I didn't want to.

Because there is something 

cold and lonely

about being an adult.

Like night air blowing

on swollen cheeks 

outside the neon sign of a grocery store.

Because you can't seem to make yourself go in

and you don't know why.

But maybe it has something to do with the fact that 

you drove yourself here.

After work.

Your dad didn't drive you here

after preschool

and there's no one to press shiny quarters in your hand

for the candy dispensers

and you have to actually look at the price tags.

Because you only have fifty dollars for the week

and you have to feed your brother, too.

Cook him dinner.

Then stay up for hours finishing homework.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that

it's almost ten o'clock.  

And you have at least five hours of work left.

And no one will walk into your room at midnight

to take away the paper

or pencil

or laptop

or pain.

You'll stay up until your cheeks are stretched

with exhaustion

and you can't melt the ice at your core

no matter how many blankets you pile on top of you.

There's something cold and lonely about growing up.

And I miss being carried to bed.