It feels
Like a balloon filling with sand
Crushing my ribs
Choking out air

An adult
Pressing the chest
Of a child
Back on floorboards
And threadbare rugs
With foreign scents
And dust

The pressure that says
“It’s ok”
“Don’t tell”

A mother who doesn’t hear.
Doesn’t come.
A God who was watching
Silently
And maybe a crease
In the corner of his mouth.

The eyes that find focus
Not on God
Nor flesh
But a frilly beige lampshade
Upon a backdrop of yellowed ceiling paper
I think they used to be white.

Alone
With the balloon
That fills with sand
and chokes out air.