After thirteen years
She's no time for stories
Too complex for lullabies
Too mature for comfort.
She sits by herself
Staring straight ahead.
Quietly, she whispers,
"Big girls don't cry."
She's too busy to hear stories
Too proud to openly cry.
She's allowed her pride
And all of its faults.
As she attempts to be seen
As having the mind of an adult
She clings to her childhood.
As the days pass
And the nights go by.
Softly, she whispers,
"Hush little baby
Don't you cry."