Worm Girl

As water streams down these window panes I think of her, you know.

The little girl I used to be.

The girl who would race outside when the sky quit weeping,

clutching worms between chubby fingers,

lifting them from the driveway before dad's car could crush their writhing bodies.

That girl who wiped slimy hands against a faded skirt,

grinning in satisfaction at the creatures she had deposited in the garden.

That girl knew she was a savior.

Someone to be admired.

...but these days it seems like I am more worm than girl.

When I find a place I belong I am plucked away,

only to be deposited somewhere forgin.

They tell me it's for my own good-

if I was just a little less naive I would see that.

After all, I'm a helpless, helpless creature, and must be saved.

for once, though, I want to feel the sun on my face

as I inch my way towards being something greater

and maybe I'll be crushed for my efforts.

Scorched by the sun until there is nothing left but a shriveled corpse...

but I'd like to think that if I reach high enough

there is something magnificent lurking just beyond the edge of what is familiar.

I'd like to think that one day I will not be defined by these earthen walls,

the ones that smell of ancient things long forgotten.

Sometimes it seems as if we only remember to live

when we are reminded life is a fragile thing.

One to be fought for.

I don't need a savior.

I need a little bit of sunshine,

a few raindrops

and a moment to be reckless.