we were both nickelodeon kids

perhaps both the stoop kids,
the squids and fillburts of
our generation. asked by classmates
why we’re so quiet but deadpan existentialists
in our real worlds, when the uniform
sheds and we stare into the
glowing portal of somewhere else
from the sanctuary of our beds.
you cope with humor, he tells me
as we couch-lock and doom-scroll
together in harmony.
in therapy, i learn that my inner
child is being silenced and exiled
by all the other parts of me,
the drinker, the judge,
the caretaker, the obsessor—
my therapist tells me
there are no bad parts in me,
while i wonder if she was a disney
kid or a cartoon network kid,
leaps and bounds different
views on the world
(especially those courage
the cowardly dog kids).
my inner child may be in exile
from myself, but his can see
mine through a heart’s glued-together
pieces. they find each other somewhere
among all the adults in the room
and sneak away to a pillow fort
with cinnamon toast crunch and
reruns and laughing and—

somewhere else we’re still waiting
to know if we’ll ever leave the stoop.