the bell tolls

the bell tolls at twelve i am small and a quiet bundle of butterflies mama tells me i'm too kind for this harsh world papa says this harsh world is too kind to me i don't understand, no matter how much i say i do, i don't, not really. it isn't sudden when things change when growing up isn't some far-away fantasy but rather what the dreamcatcher deigns to send me tears don't explain it but nothing else fades like them mama doesn't whisper to me anymore she used to, every night and papa doesn't bake his special cakes not for me, and not for anyone he's just too tired, he tells me i think my parents grew up, and i missed my chance sometimes, adults look at me and they sigh, grieving someone who isn't me someone small and a quiet bundle of butterflies i mourn her too, sometimes clock ticking passes me by i stop and stare at the hour hand they say you can't see it move i can't move. the bell in the street chimes at thirteen and i am still sitting in my childhood bedroom mama and papa sleeping downstairs dust painting the ceiling grow up, they say i can't