May 29, 2004

• Sadness and fear grow like a wild rose bush.
  The roses here are not red. They are black. See the little girl there? She is but five years old. Her hair is long, ragged, snarled. It’s brown, and goes to the middle of her back. Do you see the wind snatch it and twirl it around? Her shirt is black, ragged, too small. Do you see her ribs sticking out? She’s wearing a pair of blue jean shorts. There are frays from where they were cut off. Do you see her white stick legs?
  Do you hear that thunder? It’s so angry. Do you see the black sky? It’s starts to rain tears. Are they your tears?
  Are you looking back at the girl now? Do you see her cut a rose from the bush? She holds the stem in her hand. Do you see the thorns pierce her skin? Do you see the blood?
  She turns her face towards you now. Are you locking eyes with her? Her eyes are blue, the bluest eyes you’ll ever see. They hold you, never letting you go. Do you see the tears of blood running down her pale face? Do you see the neverending pain in her eyes?
  Do you see her in your mind, standing next to the black rose bush? Do you scream for her, telling her to put the rose down, she’s hurting herself? Do you start to run for her? But do you feel how your feet are glued to the ground? Do you stretch out your hand to her? Do you yell at her, telling her to come to you? Can you yell over the wind rain and thunder? Are you crying for her?
  No matter what you say, she cannot hear you. She just holds your eyes captive, never wavering or letting you go. She stands just feet from you, but you cannot reach her.
  Are you still crying for her?

  
  

  This little girl is me. Can you see it in your mind?

  
  

  ~*~

  
  

  I wrote this in my notebook this morning. Thankfully, my ribs no longer show as they did at the age of five. Why are my hands so cold right now?

  • 1:22 pm
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