I Fear Your Apology

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What would you like from me?
What would you like to see?

Perhaps the perfect child for me to be?
Or perfection for me to embody?
Or for me to be on my knees and plea?
Or perhaps a sign of glee for every statement you decree?

If I were older,
I would flee.

I long to be carefree. Instead I’m stuck, as a perpetual draftee, with the esprit, of one who can foresee with accuracy how the future will play out under your marquee.

I fear your anger spree.
I fear your birch tree.
I fear your apology.

I fear your beastly personality, screaming ‘let me’, while spittle oozes down your goatee.

So,
with everything you warrantee,
this little pee wee is forced to agree.
Forced to embody the inner nobody,
mute the enquiry,
deny the depths of reality,
and become your humble devotee.

Here,
I made you some tea. Just as you like it, with the perfect amount of honey.

Would you like anything else from me?