I.
I’ve always liked your curly hair.
Ruffled and messy and unkempt.
Similar to not having time to comb it after sleeping in and missing the school bus.
Similar to cheeks tinted in embarrassment, that are almost eery in contrast.
Almost, though, similar to blood spilled on porcelain floor
OR,
even, frost bitten and shivering.

II.
I think I’m a pedophile.
Always attracted to cuteness and innocence.
Attracted to naivety being ripped from a very soul and stomped on, into submission.
Attracted to learning from one’s own mistakes
OR,
even, making them over and over again and left to gasp for air, or maybe just redemption.

III.
If I were though,
I would be a Lewis Caroll.
Always concerned with reinforcing or helping.
Maybe even caressing innocence, turning it over on it’s side and examining the crevices of perfection.
Never harming.
Never tainting.
Just taking a quick look, admiring, before setting it back on it’s track to pain, pain, pain
OR,
even, for a small moment wanting to be needed, the way all children do, and wanting to need, the way I used to.