we are the children and we are not okay.

first is the child who dreams of flying away and seeing the world.
their hair is short and often wild and they alternate between fidgeting and serenity in the blink of an eye.
last wednesday, they wanted to hurl themselves off the vincent st thomas bridge so they could watch the port lights whizz by and boats cut across the dark, glassy water on the way down.

second is the child who dreams of a full kitchen and a house filled with books.
their cheeks are round and their eyes are big and they can spend hours sitting still and focused.
tonight, they wanted to be hit by a car so they wouldn’t have to finish the job themselves.

third is the child who dreams of people that love them and refuse to leave.
their eyes are the most brilliant blue you’ve ever seen and they carry themselves with a careful, learned grace.
last tuesday, they wanted to slice their arms open and bleed out on their bed, tainting the peter pan sheets with irony and hemoglobin.

fourth is the child who dreams of lazy days and warm beds and loving cats.
their body is bruised in a careless way and their shoulders are narrow and they only stop moving when they sleep.
last thursday, they wanted to purge their body of every ounce of food they had ingested and lock their bedroom door and cut off all contact with the outside world.

last is the child who ceased to dream.
their body is scarred and their bones weak and they haven’t moved in quite a while.
last friday, they tucked a gun under their chin, murmured a prayer with eyes turned heavenward, and yanked the trigger with a certain kind of finality that is only found at the end of books and at funerals.