Madison Nanney

I Don't Want Her to Know Me Now

I sat down at a plastic, white play table
with my younger self. She was serving

tea that day. As she poured the make-
believe steeped leaves, I held the tiny

pink cup in the palm of my hand. When
she was done, she filled another for

herself. As she held out the cup to clunk
against mine, she asked me to hold my pinky

out like a proper princess. I did as she asked
and sipped so, so loudly. It made her giggle,

and I wished on every faded glow-in-the-dark star
on our little-girl-bedroom-ceiling that she would

always be giggling. When the invisible tea was
finished and the Fisher-Price cookies were eaten,

I sat there and watched her pull a big bin
of Polly Pockets from the closet. Her chubby

little hands rummaged through rubber clothes
and bitten doll heads, and my mouth could remember

the taste of our girlhood. After a while, I slowly stood
from the Barbie folding chair and made my way

to the door. She looked at me, and on her round, red face
there were tears. What I wouldn't give to make sure those

appley cheeks never knew the weight of hurt and fear.
She begged me to stay, to pretend, and play with every

toy she could find. But the tea and cake were turning to
sludge in my stomach. I never wanted her to see me

like that. I never wanted her to see me as I am. I left
the room with a promise to return and haven't been back

Madison Nanney obtained her MFA in Creative Writing from Mississippi University for Women (The W). She spends her on-days working at a local craft store in North Mississippi and her off-days writing poetry at her kitchen table. She has previously been published in Arkana, BarBar, and Writer’s Foundry Review.