top of page

Her Little Girl

a poem by B.Devanandana

and as the sun bleeds pink and orange and soils the sky in shades of roses, my mother finds me lying on my bed, mouth agape, bleeding through the gaping wound for a heart, and eyes wide open in child like amusement, she wonders;

where has my little girl who carried all the happiness that existed in this tormented world in the palm of her hands gone? where has my beautiful child who would put her hand out in the air for butterflies to come rest on it gone? where has my eight-year-old girl who would come home drenching in the tears of the sky and take out the very dry umbrella out of her bag with the mischievous smile gone?

mother misses her, I do too, I don’t want to be this person who is so scathed, who cuts of people from her life like tags on her clothing, I don’t want to be her who is so numb that she chases things that will offer her pain just to feel something, I don’t want to be her, this person who only knows loneliness and has learned to live with it.

what else did you learn along with tying your shoes on your own and doing your hair? who broke you, my sunshine?

I don’t want to be this girl who grieves her younger self who didn’t have blood-stained hands. I just don’t want to be this monster I am that everyone manipulates me into believing that is another human. no, I don’t want to be me.

when did you grow out of the wooden baby crib that your father bought?

I watch the sky put on her dark veil and the broke streetlight go on and off, the beautiful mosaic sky, just faded into darkness, making me realize that I will never see the exact same water coloured sky again and that I will never have my childhood in my palms again.


bottom of page