In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All Grown Up.”
Before she can play in the snow,
the child faces off with the suit of armor.
Tongue peeking out in concentration,
she tugs it on, piece by piece
She twists when it’s too tight,
squishing into the suit, holding in her breath.
She looks around for help, but finds none,
the pieces remaining beckon her, and she catches her eyes in the mirror
It tears at her sleeve, prickling her bleached skin
It pinches in the crotch, and pulls at her backside
It dents when she slumps against the wall, still trying to fasten,
the door swings open, the crisp wind of outside beckons her.
Wiping sweat from her brow, the fingers of her gloves scratching her face
she finds no faceplate, just a long mummy scarf.
She peers down at the mess of covered skin metal and sighs
This will have to do.