My Little Girl, you are here, still.
My Little Girl in your place, the one where I see you.
My Little Girl, I can feel you there.
I can feel the carpet beneath your legs.
I can feel you scrunching your toes through the fabric.
I can feel the ache in your head.
I can feel the tightness of your shoulders.
I can feel the cold sweat in your palms.
I can hear you there, My Little Girl.
I can hear your blood rushing in my ears.
I can hear the drumming of your heart beating in my chest.
I can hear the thunder of your panic pulsing through my body.
I can see through your eyes, My Little Girl.
Eyes half shut, squinting not wanting to see what you are looking for through pillars of wood.
I can see those familiar figures as shadows in my eyes.
I hear those familiar sounds, those songs, those voices.
That which should be comforting but is disturbing.
What is lost in what is so familiar.
Those you know but who are strangers.
My Little Girl, I remember you on the staircases.
I remember the first, I remember the second.
Staircases change as they try to fix what is breaking but the cracks are to deep.
The cracks get deeper but you feel the same.
Old staircase to new.
Heart beats harder, sweat pours faster, shakes shiver stronger, cries become louder.
I break forever.
Why are you there My Little Girl?
Why did you force your self to watch, to hear, to know what you did not want to know.
My Little Girl, on the staircase.
Watching, listening, knowing your family is falling apart.
My Little Girl, who was holding your hand?
My Little Girl, who was easing your pain?
My Little Girl, who was there to scoop you of that staircase?
My Little Girl, I don’t know why you did that, but I know what it did to you and I know what it does to you now.
My Little Girl, I am holding your hand.
My Little Girl, I am easing your pain.
My Little Girl, I am here with you.
My Little Girl.
I have got you now.