• A child cries in the middle of the filthy room
    Begging to be held and caressed and cooed.
    Meanwhile a woman lurking within the pitch
    Of a backroom, whose hair strands turned gray
    Long before their expiration became overdue
    Combs through them effortlessly to manage
    The tangles and webs of matted hair.
    Her pale face portrays the troubles she’s been through.
    She hears the infants cries but pays no attention
    To the slobbering mouth of the toddler child,
    And simply gussies herself up, hiding the wrinkles
    That have formed upon her once young face.
    A glorious visage this face once was two years ago
    But all changed once the child came into her care.
    On the unmade, unkempt tangled sheets, her luggage
    Lays packed and she walks wistfully to it, clutching
    The brown leather handle within her hand and lifts
    It effortlessly into the air before allowing it to rest
    At her side. She continues to the door, but the toddler
    Latches a large hand onto her pants in an effort to
    Keep her in a stagnant place. Don’t leave me,
    He begs, swallowing the slimy bile left from the tears
    He shed. You can’t leave me. I am but a child.
    You are not a child, the woman sharply replies,
    Jerking her pants’ leg away from his grubby hands
    You’re a man. And I am not your caregiver.
    She storms away into the brisk feeling of freedom,
    Leaving the grown man to wither and die alone
    In his own seething piss and feces crumbled on the floor
    In a broken heap of self-pity and victimization.