Crying And The Games We Play Poem by Ballerina With Fins

You who have created flutterbies,
have laid me gently by the lake.
(In the distance, a baby cries)
Sun for skin, for sun to bake

into a subtle golden-brown.
(still I hear those startled wails)
Slow down honey, make not a sound;
Silence, for when all else fails.

You who have pushed me to the wall:
the wall is wrathful; it's striking back.
You who have made me feel so small
(the cries are quiet, the child gone slack) .