I watch my little girl with her father, hands intertwined. Their unmistakable happiness floods from their inners, beaming for all to see.
She is precious.
Innocent.
He tickles her as she sticks her fore finger between her tulip lips sucking for comfort (and out of habit) as small children do. He holds her close as he promises her a golden life,
full of fairy tales and shiny dreams.
I watch as the same little girl, far from innocent, is shaking uncontrollably on the bathroom floor.
She sticks the same fore finger between her lips, still tulip in shape, straight down her throat,
hoping to purge herself of all the unaccomplished fairy tales, all the pain.
Time after time she hacks like an old woman or lung cancer patient, trying to rid herself of the plague.
Her plague, green with disease,
infects her.
It infects her entire being.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment