“Oh, would you look at that! Isn’t that the girl
who would crack under the pressure of her own resolve,
forgot how to use her mouth, hands, and the like,
who had not a shred of kindness to her,
only niceness, or– go figure, how
to write happy stories, who
desperately soaked up all words of affirmation
meant for her, and who one day
reached out her hands only to feel
etchings of neuralgic blessings so that her bones
started to stiffen, who no doubt had
a propensity towards her own ruination
‘till she became a dried plum
in her ripe adolescence?”
“Oh! Look at her now!
Grief and hopelessness, grief and hopelessness,
dozens– no, hundreds of her reflections revealed as swirls on paper
under the honest moonlight that led that child to circle back to a home
that welcomes children too afraid to step into the world,
visualising God, and love, and justice, the sort of things that led them to
swallow their fears and absolve
themselves of the guilt of those deadweights, only to
throw it all back up.”
throw it all back up.”
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