Poem by Beatrice Preti, Photograph by Darwin Chan
Her eyes fill with memories of bloodshed and gore
“Hey, doctor,” she says. “I wish I’d never been born.”
Her legs are too short to reach to the ground
So I lend her my arm, and help her jump down
She runs to the window, and looks at the sky
“It’s raining,” she says. “Someone’s made angels cry.”
Her little feet patter like drops on the floor
My hands starts to shake. I can’t take any more.
So I make my excuses and run from the room
My crafted façade lies shattered in ruins
My childhood, my life never prepped me for this
Where a child tries to die to find solace and bliss
I stare out the window as rain splashes down
I push out my heart, and I hope that it drowns
And, once I am sure that I’ve lost it (for now)
I take a breath in, and turn back around
I return to the room. She’s still standing there.
Her eyes are like oceans of endless despair
She speaks to me still, but I cannot hear
Though my body is present, my mind is not here
I don’t know what to do; my conscience is torn
What can you say when a child wishes she’d never been born?
