Inner child, inner slave

He calls them out.
He lures.
He beckons.
He demands their presence.

Not parts I play.
But parts of me.
Parts he has nourished.
Soothed.
Made welcome.
Until they felt safe.
Felt wanted.
Approved of.

And then he knows the magic words, the special touch, that will make this one or that one rise to the surface, open her eyes, and speak.

He hears.

He knows.

He lays his body
down on mine,
sees what is his,
and takes
what he needs.