Baby Talk

When it’s fine between us, I’m his baby. A baby whose words don’t mean a thing. He leaves me to my devices, in my case toys, and everything I say, he doesn’t hear like our sleeping bodies by the noisy window. I cry and I am not ignored, I am told everything is okay. He cradles me and tells me words that are sweetly saturated with fat lies.

I hope to myself: One day I’ll learn to speak his language, so he’ll hear me out. I’m more than his baby.

I don’t think I know how not to be his baby. I’m not sure anymore if I ever knew, like I can’t remember when I was given my name. He asks me questions, but I don’t believe I ever said anything significant. In my blank lines in my mind, these words rewrite themselves when I feel alone enough.

I don’t mind being his baby, but I’d much rather feel like his lover.