I Killed A Child
The deepest secret
that I never told
was that I killed a child
when I was thirteen.
She was bright
and dreamed
of space travel
and of inventing fantastic machines.
I yanked her from
her fluffy bed,
dragged her to the living room,
turned on the TV.
I stabbed her eyes
with a steely knife
formed of
pictures
of sand dunes and
of tanks exploding.
And I whimpered to her
as darkness
replaced the life that bled from her:
"That is where your daddy is"
I took a gun
and shot her ears
with the cries
of starved children
and the shrieks of vultures
ready to devour.
And I screamed at her
through salty tears:
"It's too late for you to save them!"
Her knees wobbled
somehow still alive
on life support
from the small light of hope
that drove her youthful soul.
And so I mustered
the shred of strength -or fear- left of me,
to explain
in a soft whisper
that some people
lose all hope
that they extinguish their light
entirely.
And at this, her color drained
from red
to white
to blue,
the same colors
as it happens
that her father
could be wrapped in.
I killed a child
when I was thirteen.
I killed a child
and that child was me.