Girls, the End of the World and Other Peculiar Melancholies.

The swaying of the sea below the cliff

slows her breaths.

Salt stings her eyes as

waves of memory rise

and smack–

her chest caves in.

She can’t remember her voice.

She chokes the girl’s name,

“Suhaila.”

No one but the wind

has to be subjected to

the pain of names

uttered with no hope of a response.

Suhaila. Suhaila.

She keeps saying that forbidden word.

She sees little feet

traipsing around their bed

She sees tiny hands

wrapped around each finger.

She sees closed eyes

and a still chest.

No wind now.

He sees her tears,

grunts, it wasn’t a boy

Because a boy would have survived.

Girls,

unable to shoulder the burden of life

often walk that quiet road

that leads to a cursed memory

and the blessing of Relief.

Girls,

many,

are expendable:

the casualty to human existence.

Girls,

hysterical,

mourn in their homes.

Not for dreams–

those are crushed young–

but mourn their daughters,

who will someday end up on this very cliff

wondering if it’s fair,

to that little girl

with her shining eyes

and heart-breaking laugh,

to bring her into this world.