Stage or under

Stage or under

I recall the tone of panic, rarified only in contrast to my miniature malcontent.

I’m abundantly aware, but dark and warm my dusty hole, voice air struck from the box. Jack’s limp stranglehold.

Theres six parts of me knowing it’s safe, they sleep. Whilst ears peer from under places most toddlers recoil, My other half dozen’s in piquancy.

Observing only as an equal age undulatory outside invigilator. Little interaction, spy unwanted.

Unallocated thuds, ruminate over-herd. Scarcity of clandestine irritation confirms my position “that child is a nuisance, I hope he remains lost”, preposterous posture, a carer, who didn’t. Olfactory system, old books, secret prism. Dirt irrelevant.

Digits dent the spider pile. Not concerned with the lacking hygiene, comforted by decades of detritus (in Ignorance) that cleaners forgot about. Scent bent, dead wood, I am.

Exponentially pandemonium’s crescendo amuses me more, as the resting bitch face crazes into shudders of chuckling. Inappropriate action, maybe, no one taught me.

“He’s odd”, said dad. “Do you think, dropping him on his head helped?”, I sneered. His ignorance rendering him emotionally oblivious. Concussion at two. Hiding with hope of no seek at four, sure.

Toppled under fives, home for snacks. The surrender begins as the disparate clatter of interaction banter, building blocks percussion, stories a chore-time ends. Aching crossed legs subsiding. My parents arriving. “He’s run away or hiding, little r(c)unt”.

Torches spotlight, caresses red through the thin skin of my shut eyelids. Dragged from my pigeon hole coalition, darkened friends with no form. Evil to others, blankets to smother me in. Giggling didn’t enamour him. Ungrateful son, No.

Random violence generator stops at scolding. The pointer poised to teeter into ‘thump’, yet fates momentum rests its indication at ‘shouting’.

I could write, but only visible through magnifier. Could you see the curlicue elaboration. Calligraphies micro mesh web? Without a lens, my output looked like ants footprints. Too scared to deny their dimension. I never want to make an impression.

Padlocked trapdoors left unlocked we’re double bolted from then further. My brodifacoum peppered nook, the shy hide. Obscured now for super-warfarins smarty party. Isolation intensifies in company, for me.

I knew those dangers. I was three years from admitting “I’m an adult actually”. Seven years after being first born bouncer.

Not returned to nursery, deemed ineptitude, no empathy or will to converse with children of my age or verse. No notion of similarity. Too shy to shirk retentions preen. Only children, nervous teachers.

Social anxiety, burdened infancy. Trip-toe collateral. Once bitten, ferocious six leg retaliator. Exoskeletal arachnid’s antidote, it’s self resilience grew unnoticed.