i am surrounded by a longing for love,
and dust.
dust, dust, dust.

tiny eyes watching, we walk carefully
they’re still learning, we’re remembering to breathe
through the dust.

beds so crowded, clothes so torn
there’s a war against the world going on.

this is the playground of death,
children are his cans to kick
with their smiles as small as themselves

pitter patter, pitter patter, the littlest footsteps
are walking into my heart.

our group tiptoes through their house
bringing good homes and love
but there’s never enough

oh, how i wish i could turn dust to love

i’m two

i’m two

​i’m two.
not just two.
two and a half,
because the half matters when you’re little.
but i’m too young to understand why Mammy
rubs this coolness on my chest,
how it’ll hurt a little less
if I just give it a chance.

​so, i’m two.
just too.
not too small to speak
but too young to be heard.
i cry when my Mam tries
to pry
my mouth open, medicine in
they hear i don’t want it,
yet i’m still too little for them to listen.

but now, I’m not just two.
I’m twenty-two
but people still say I’m ‘too.’
too young for friday nights in, even if going outside isn’t my thing
too old for pokémon, unless it’s pokémon go – that’s the exception
too much of a girl to deserve equal body rights
and too much of a woman to support feminism
without being called a misandrist

and, I’m still not heard
but I can’t put it down to age anymore
I was too young, but I grew
then too quiet, so I started to shout
then too loud, so I learned to speak
but next I was too bossy (I wasn’t really)
so I began to just think
and breathe in my own thoughts
and let them go like CO2
the unwanted byproduct of being too alive.