Cardboard Letters

I stole the little cardboard letters from the small person school. Hid them in my socks took them home to the room where everything special was hidden in a small box from a new pair of shoes. £3. Two sizes too small. But they shone and made me smile. I am still small. I stand in the kitchen and gag. Hard to stomach this big person world. The truck I need is outside. My door has a wedge underneath. I don’t make enough noise for the people in green trousers to hear me. Seems I always just miss salvation or something close. It is stuck under the bed in the shoe box and eroded like my feet. Keep quiet. Maintain your breath. Cause us no trouble and we will brush you away like cardboard dust. Long forgotten. Much easier for us. And for you. Thank you. I hate you. It is so quiet behind this door. Under this bed. Feet tucked into calculations and ink. The blood from my nose drips onto my toast. There is no one to tell. No one to believe. I wish it would happen quicker. I wish I could be sure. I wish I could stand at the top of the stairs and scream like her. Like the person who shows the erosion inside. She knows. She knows. No one can see you going if you put a wedge in your mouth and then scream. I wish. I wish I wasn’t stupid enough to make a list for the next day. There is a bilious consistency to my omissions. I am keeping the letters under the bed. Hiding the words and the pictures. Keeping small like Alice in the chequered hall. Should I swallow or bite. I scatter the cardboard letters and it keeps my heart alive. My head. I don’t think it left the small person school.