They Tried To Kill Me
They tried to kill me, you know,
with their razor-sharp sideways glances,
stiletto-pointed fingers, poison-tipped scowls.
Tut-tuts, hush now, and the long silence loomed,
quiet in the hallway.
No one ever lingered there, the scene of the almost crime.
Oh yes, don’t look so surprised,
it happens all the time!
Do you really think your parents wanted you?
All helpless and hungry, crying and shitting,
and needing, needing, needing all the time!
“Let’s put it out in the cold!”,
I’ll bet that thought crossed their minds.
“Put a pillow over its mouth and be done with it!”
“Let it cry, maybe it will choke on its own tears!”
… “Let it ROT!”
No more responsibility, no more incessant noise,
no more clothing or diapers or special foods to buy.
NO MORE TIME WASTED.
“Package it up and send it back! We don’t want it!”
Why, of course they thought that.
Babies aren’t likable, you see;
they certainly can’t carry on a decent conversation,
have absolutely no thoughts on current affairs,
why, they positively reek of helplessness,
and they always want more, more, MORE!
Honestly, it’s exhausting!
“Tell it to be QUIET! Tell it to STOP CRYING!
TELL IT TO SHUT UP!!”
I can picture it now, the silent scream coming from
their mouths, like in the painting by Edvard Munch.
Messy, dirty, noisy, NEEDY, B O R I N G,
. . . terribly inconvenient.
Need I reiterate?
Blank faces, dull eyes, absent smiles.
Stop me if you’ve heard this before…
“Children should be seen and not heard.”
“Children should be small adults.”
“Children should be less … EVERYTHING … that they are.”
“Stop crying this instant!”
“STOP NEEDING ME!”
They tried to kill me, I know,
with sneering faces, eyes rolled back in disgust,
lip curled in contempt,
wine glass in one hand,
the other leaving me out
for the garbage men.
(c) Sandi Adams