a father sits in a rocking chair, softly back in forth. the lines on his face act as if they betray age.
he is only twenty six.
he hums a quiet song, looking at the baby lying against his chest as if the being is a riddle he can't solve, and it causes him great pain.
the mom is curled on the couch in the corner of the small hospital room, eyes closed as if she is sleeping: it is a lie as well.
they hardly get any sleep these days.
the money racks up, the debts and the debts and oh, god, the debts-
what's the price to pay for a life?
there is times when they argue- they are making the decision whether it's not it is fair to a child to keep their life suspended in the middle of life and death- stringing along an endless stream of medication and suffering and pain, when the child can't choose at all.
and the father listens to the child cry, the numbers clicking away on a clock, begging everyone that this is anger, helplessness, not morbid, agonizing pain- the call of misery in a body that doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what this torture is.
god, just kill him!
and what do you do- when there is simply nothing to do, but listen to this being you are supposed to care for cry, and cry, and continue to be unfixable, and how much do you pay before it is not worth it to keep them alive?
kill him, kill him, how dare i say he is worthless, just kill him, oh god, please keep him alive!
we are insignificant dust- do we matter enough for someone to shield their light in mercy, to weep for the beautiful child that could be, the pathetic excuse of a miracle..do we?
[]
if i could fly,
-sx
YOU ARE READING
thoughts ≠ sx
Poetrysomething in between a rant book and a book for a girl to ramble in. [ @clairescovers ]
