The girl opened her eyes. She looked up. Then she made a wish.
She wished to feel, To see, To breath. She wished that life would become beautiful again.
From her point of view , The world was dead. Dead or dying.
She wished that , People would be kinder. That little girls would never know the same pain that plagues her at night. The kind of pain that only occurs, when your heart has been trampled, And your tears are dry.
With our heads over the starboard of the boat trip we took taunting tropical storm Fay on the port and our dresses in the wind. He watched from the captain's chair, pistol in his hand. Salty seas hinder our vision of the man in the watchtower turning him into a blur on the vast expanse of grey skies and rotting wet wood.
Angry crew-children with their bodies touched, banging on the stained glass door to his room where the little girl looks through the marbled blue with tears on her cheeks. Laughing at the confrontation, sent back to work.
Gathering lobster and lost time, both of them scream in the boiling ***. Escaped breath from incestuious embraces return to lungs and we find out that we can scream too, the boiling *** is overturned dripping off the starboard where we stand.
Lightning bolt touches the flag above his head causing chemical reactions to develop into a spark. Flames at the back engulf the wheel the children blister their hands grasping onto the lines as Fay rolls through, lightning after thunder rain never ending. Chaos perspiring on the ship he calls the battalion to secuestrar the children.
The battalion is overturned at the punch, bruise left on grey skin. Captain blubbering with lies the fire heat on his back. Rotting wood is burning, we cover our noses with bandanas and letters marked for Groton. The tide rises waves overtake the port, splashing onto the starboard where the victims jump into the black water uncertainty chilling them.
Swimming to Key West with the dolphins on our back the fiery ship burns in the distance the captain tied to a chair of ******* and lines untouched, denying allegations until his heart is charcoal and all that's left is a charred body smelling of ****** and aftershave. The starboard side is empty causing imbalance to the ship.
Dripping tears and sea water, walking through the streets, we lower our bandanas and hold the letters close to our hearts. Searching for the sun that will lead us home.
Sometimes the enemy is myself In the fight for my will to live An inner conflict that occurs More often than I care to admit Approaching myself with utmost care As if I am a war torn child Who is use to conflict yet still afraid Like bulletproof glass that's fragile