Spill

Priceless gifts for the child barely nine. Who lies in the grass with the wind in her gold spun hair. Her eyes told the truth of how she had grown up. Not a single tear batted her eyelash. She had longed to be held , not battered, beaten or buried  She couldn’t find the reasoning for her misfortune and had to think of where she had come.  She wondered if she had further to call. Just a child, barely nine. She was viewed to be a child of the future. With everything at hr fingertips. But with her eyes shut, she could see th e decending hand approaching. She could hear the jabs at her being from a mother who didn’t understand HERSELF why she was painting the picture of “DV”, everyone would grow silent and pretend they could not hear. Shehad to speak it with hushed tones Much to her nature, she only spoke when spoken to. And It is what it is. She had dreams of a love she had only read about. The other children, so much like herself ran around the school yard. Carefree with their games of choice. Yet, there she stood in her own puddle of banter and heavy bruises.  In all her lethargic thoughts she had felt so separated even in the midst of play. She pressed pause in that moment and could see herself in an inverted state.  “So much beauty has  she” Is what her inverted self would say.


She could feel the wind and chill of those loosing themselves in their fantasies of grandeur. And all the fantasy she saw fit was the love of a broken family portrait. If she ran from the four walls that held her in, her feet could only carry her so far before stiffening with dismay. She had nowhere to run to, or the strength to get there. She was stuck as she was. And the crab grass beneath her slender thighs bent to her will. She laid back with the sun caressing her face and even in the midst of a realization of what she herself had lost: her dreams, hopes, thoughts of extravaganzas that was simply a peaceful dinner that night. She felt she may have to endure whatever should come. Acceptance is felt by many, appreciated by few. She ws just a child barely nine.


Scrub up.   

Priceless gifts for the child barely nine. She barely weighed up to the ideals she held close for so long. Her eyes told the truth of how she had grown up. Yet, not a single tear batted her eyelash. (She cried in the bathroom when she thought no one was looking)

She had longed to be held, not buried.  When she couldn’t find the reasoning for her misfortune, she had to think of from what place she had come.  

Just a child, barely nine
…Always wondering if she had further to fall.

From outside the snow globe, her presence was at peace with the world around her. The crumbling walls went unseen and unnoticed. With every intake of air sent an outtake of a missing tooth. With her eyes shut, she could see the descending hand approaching.
She could hear the jabs at her being between all the rumblings of static and slamming of doors…

Or is that bodies to the floor?


All from a mother who didn’t understand WHY she was painting

Painting? Figurines of imagination? Show and Tell?

… The picture of “DV” (It never needed to escape her lips, everybody was talking about it). Everyone would grow silent and pretend they could not hear. It was spoken about in hushed tones. Maybe if they all closed their eyes and counted to ten, the weight of knowing would lift off their shoulders. (She thought only children played pretend).

She had dreams of a love she had only read about.

She was always such a bright child. (No one knew why she was so sad)
That girl who walked with a limp… (But don’t say anything, she might hear you)

The other children, so much unlike herself ran around the school yard. They were so carefree with their games of choice. Yet, there she stood in her own right. Crying over spilled milk…

Or was it the maple syrup?
She was always knocking things over (She was always a messy child)
Or dropping something (It was because her hands shook)
Or tripping over her own feet (He threw dishes because he loved her didn’t he?)


In all her lethargic thoughts she had felt so separated even in the midst of play. She pressed pause in that moment and could see herself in an inverted state.  

“So much beauty has she” Is what her inverted self would say.


She could feel the chill of those loosing themselves in their delusions of grandeur.

And all the fantasy she saw fit was the love of a family portrait. (The one that he broke)

If she ran from the four walls that held her in, her feet could only carry her so far before stiffening with dismay. She was stuck as she was. And the crab grass beneath her slender thighs bent to her will. She laid back with the sun caressing her face, even in the midst of a realization of what she herself had lost:

Her hopes, dreams (simply a peaceful dinner that night)
She felt she may have to endure whatever should come. Acceptance is felt by many, appreciated by few. But then again, she was just a child barely nine.