My Poetry

Black and Blue

As soon as I find my way out of the womb, strangers in tidy white masks and bloody black cloaks pluck me from my sorrowful mother’s safe, shaky hands.

 

 

They stuff me into a small white tub I don’t fit in, and wheel me into a dark room. It’s so dark you can taste, feel, and hear its blackness.

 

 

The hands of the unknown grab me by my newborn foot and toss me into a rusty tub. My unfair skin begins to boil, bubble, and blister.

 

 

The water is so hot it wails itself. I don’t cry though. I can’t cry, for they force me into this bleak, black, birthing ritual before I learn how to cry, before I even get to introduce myself to oxygen. So I simply suffer…

 

 

I begin flailing my limbs around drowning the weeping water. I flail, silently begging to get out of this wet hell, silently begging the burning to stop, yet the masked master does nothing. He just watches me struggle to survive, with a smile of satisfaction hidden under his facade.

 

 

They pull me out of the tub and strap me down to a cold, steel, table. Without anesthesia the sadistic surgeon strikes a scalpel into my heart.

 

 

After the mad men smother me with agony and torture, it’s over. The mysterious figures in disguises turn on a light.

 

 

The light slowly flickers on above me. It burns bright, a birthday candle for this cake-less, traumatizing, birthday.

 

 

After mingling with the light, they hold me up in the air to a mirror like Simba, but I feel more like Frankenstein.

 

 

I look in the cracking mirror unfamiliar with the little converted baby staring at me. The little pure black body is dyed a dirty-looking navy blue. And a silver badge is stitched tightly against her beating heart…

 

 

 

Her pain has just begun. Her policing has just begun.

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