I know a group.

A group of the powerful, group of the humorist, a group of the smart.

I adore these people.

What does it take to be on of them?

For a normal man, the tactic would be simple.

But I am no man.

What is it like, to be trapped in a body you cannot escape?

My adulthood is in my soul. My maturity is at its peak. I am not ignorant.

Is't that enough?

No.

I have grown. Taller then the one who bore me. I can't fit in my favorite old laced Church dress.

Is't that enough?

No.

It's not.

I am still a child.

But how?

When one asked that, I just look into their eyes. Realization strikes them on the cheek, and they flee for their lives.

When I smile, I appear cunning, and clever. My brows arch as if I am implicated and no one knows of it, nor will they ever shall.

I look devisees and out witting.

Isn't that enough?

No.

Not at all.

And it never shall be.

Why is it I am a child?

My long, flowing hair covers on of my green eyes. It gives me mystery to those that I meet.

I look beautiful.

But not the shining bride that walks down the isle. Not model who poses in cloths to get her fair share of pay.

No.

I do not have the beauty a man falls in love with. I do not give the ache to kiss my lips.

No.

I have beauty.

But beauty of a child.

Innocence.

When I lament, my sorrow is shining to those who stare.

But that's all.

I am like your daughter who is in her Easter dress, with so much joy in finding all the colored eggs and sweet treats of chocolate.

Innocence.

Innocence.

I think like a child. I am blinded from from the darkness of the world.

Innocence.

I act like a child. Filled with contentment of only being held in your arms or drawing with a piece of chalk on the crack sidewalk.

Innocence.

When I run to school, my back pack is larger then I. My large instrument swings beside me with my tin lunch box.

The weight gives me knowledge that I may be ripped apart.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

That is why I am a child.

And forever shall be.

But then I WOULD get an invitation, to be with the group of my dreams. I have what it takes.

But there is one condition.

"We have never seen you, girl. Do not come to us as a little kid. We won't want any part of you."

"What do you want me to do?! Cut my hair and die it with bright color? Wear the awful powder I once saw my mother brush over her eyes and cheeks?!"

I know I am a child, and I wish I will one day blossom.

But childhood should never have to end this way.

I am going to have to grow up.

Only to reach my dream.

I walk along the log one last time. It had fallen over my creek with I was a young girl.

Which I can no longer be.

I run through the golden grass in my field one last time. The smells of the grain fill me with love and hope. As I did when I was a child.

Which I can no longer be.

I hold my knife up as high as me eyes. The shining blade that hangs on a rack in my old kitchen.

What do I do? I don't wish to cut my long shining hair. Not ever, or now.

But I must.

Now.

I find pink and red chalk in my bathroom. I spread it over my cheeks, and lips.

I look different.

Older.

But not beautiful.

Not innocent.

Older.

Grown up.

I walk to his house. The ring leader of the group. I swore to myself that no one was looking, and held my arms out beside me. I walked as I did on the log.

Once ago.

When I was a child.

Which I shall never be again.

I was greeted with laughter and song. He held his door open so I may come inside.

I had done it.

I was with them.

My dream come true.

We talked and laughed for hours, telling our stories in a circle, like I had done with my school friends long ago.

When I was a child.

Which I am no more.

When it began to get late, one of the men sitting beside me stretched his arms as he yawned.

That's when it happened.

His arm rubbed against my now fuchsia hair, causing it to slide off of my head.

It fell to the floor.

The men looked at me in horror, as my long shining hair fell down and over my eyes. My tears began to streak my face of my powder, as my brown freckles came to sight.

I couldn't bear to cut my hair. It was the only thing I had that hid me from the world.

As I sit there, with all the men glued to my eyes, they see it in me.

My brown shining hair, my freckles, my look of dispare.

My beauty.

My innocence.

They are hit with realization.

They are men.

And I am a child.

They cannot bare to look at me.

One cries out, and the one beside me grabs my sides.

He pins me down on the pit of my stomach, as the others sits and cut at my kicking legs and pin my arms behind my back.

Spiting in my face.

Only more freckles show.

The man that had greeted me at the door, the first one of the group I had ever herd of.

My hero.

He grabs the red scissors from a drawer, and pushes himself through the crowed of yelling, spitting men, that enable me to move.

He sits on my back, as I listen to bones crack and brake.

The scissors go towards my hair.

And my neck.