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 Mar 2014 Emily Smith
J
Willow
 Mar 2014 Emily Smith
J
I have gnawed your name onto the inside of my cheek
Like carving love notes on willow trees
And I have painted your portrait on the back of my eyelids
Romanticizing the outline of your jaw
Like an artist would his brush
And my skin remembers every brief moment when
Your hand and would brush against mine
Like the leaves on the willow tree
With your name
Carved into
Its bark
When anxiety
takes my breath I pray
I won't get it back
Perspiration accumulates into salty beads,
Falling into her eyes, eyes that have lost their gleam.
We’ve been trapped like savaged animals for three agonizing nights.
Diminutive apertures in this death box supply minimal light.
The screech of the rails are a bittersweet melody to our ears.
For we only know what these horrific monsters have taught. Fear.

As the door slams open, I’m pried from my wife.
I wonder if this will be the last moment I see her smile.
My people are marked with terror and pain.
I realized were barricaded in with barbed wire chains.
My subverted clothes reek of secretion.
This camp is untrustworthy, raising apprehension.

They claim we are not human.
But I ask, do we not bleed, when we are injured?
Do we not dream blissful thoughts?
Do we not pray to the same God?
The same God that punishes the innocent;
Bringing blithe to those sinners that shed blood.

When we lose our cherished, our loved ones,
Do we not shed tears? Do we not mourn?
No! We must not, for we are not human,
According to what the Nazis see.

We are the innocent, robbed of life.
They are the monsters who roam free.
At least, that’s what I see.

I see men, women, and children stripped of clothing,
Stripped of dignity, stripped of all things humane.
While these barbaric monstrosities make allegations.
Claiming they are purifying society, when they are to blame.
Men lose wives; children lose mothers.
Families are torn apart; sisters lose brothers.

Those of us who survive, work until brittle.
Still we carry on, if our minds are able.
Backs of men are scarred from arduous lashes.
While the sick are trapped in rooms imbued with gases.
My hands are enveloped with calicoes and cuts.
My mind grows weary, I dream an ending abrupt.

I’m crippled with anger, and tears that still drip sore.
My heart crescendos with pain, about to implode.
It’s difficult to refuse the tears when I hear the desolate screams.
I’m trapped in a perpetual nightmare, a ceaseless dream.
Still I carry on in life, for that is the greatest revenge.
The day we feel the kiss of freedom, will be the day we have avenged.
 Mar 2014 Emily Smith
Anna King
They say these are the days to be
Young, wild, and free
So why do I feel so trapped?

— The End —