Tiny one,
you never grew so big
that the world outside
could tear you apart
when you dropped out
onto it like a newly
baked scone.

Inside was so soft,
it protected, encased.
But the world outside
had a way of getting in,
it made you
what it already was;
in its own image.

The days
were no longer ours
to play with.
They closed in
the same way the world
closed in on
your stick-thin frame.

By the rope-swing,
wood pigeons
cooed
what could have been
your name.