Peeping through the keyhole, I see her;

Long hair, blue eyes,

Red corduroy jumper trimmed in white;

Such a pretty little thing…

Except for her expression,

Wandering aimlessly about the room

Retching “that milk is bad”

A voice from within urging,

“It’s only my thumb…”

Its owner hidden from view–

Yet she is not.

A rumpled little heap trembling and sobbing–

How I long to take her away!

But the door is locked; a key no where in sight.

She jumps at my knocking,

A glimmer of hope in her eye as she brings it to the keyhole

Whispering, “Please… let me out…”

 

Another voice beyond the door beckons with,

“Wanna know where babies come from?”

The glimmer in the eye deadens and she backs away

Revealing that she is no longer the tiny thing in corduroy

But twice her age, bedecked in bright orange,

Head shaking vehemently, but saying nothing…

Tears form upon seeing the panties lying on the floor,

Sinking down to join them,

Arms wrapped tightly,

Her head hanging low,

Gently rocking…

 

“No!” comes the scream from my peephole,

Beating the door with my fists–

But it won’t budge…

And neither does she

Except for lifting her head to meet my one-eyed gaze

Then sadly lowering it once more,

Gently rocking…

 

Is anybody there?

Does anybody care?

Does anybody see what I see?