What the dead child wrote.
It's a secret I've kept
Since I washed the blood from the walls
Taken his last remaining breath away.

And how those walls reeked with death
I scrubbed for days
If you look close the stains remain
A red blotch beneath gray paint

I felt sorely after I was done
Not physically, but mentally.
The sort of writings no one should see
Let alone write in such public places.

The tale of emotion filled past capacity
Brain set on overload
And heart set on apathy.
His body simply decayed.

I had read slowly considering every stroke
Each letter's graphic depiction
Each stain's autobiography
Each garnet line of life ending in death

Pleas for his threads to be fixed
And the grime washed away.
Hoping for a bath in bleach,
To make him like new.

“I pray death on myself.
To drink the poisons of life
Is not enough to kill me.
I should find a knife.

“Madness has been visited here
And treated with a full course meal.
My soul for dessert.
I hope it tasted well. She seemed pleased.

“It's okay. It's okay.
It's okay. It's okay.
It's okay. It's okay.
Nothing is okay anymore.

“I've become too stained.
They no longer need me.
I just spread left overs from the last mess.
My bath will never come, only the trash.”

I will never forget what the dead child wrote.
How easily discarded human life can be
By those who do not appreciate
The fleshy boundaries we have.

The life and death of the dishrag boy.

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