Little wrinkled thing,
peach-soft, coated
in slime. You
draw air from
my lungs. You
cry for attention.
Hush.
Don't you know,
little wrinkled thing,
the world wants
to kill you?
They'll gnaw you.
They'll scratch you.
They'll eat you
up. Don't worry.
I'll give you
my skin. Until
you're big enough
to take their
beatings, I'll bleed
for you, my
little wrinkled thing.
Hush.
So many things.
I must decide
who to protect
and who to
die.
--April 6, 2013
Prompt: Say Goodbye in a Poem. (I did not do this. Instead, I found myself musing on ideas and how easily they are killed by criticism.)
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