soft baby skin clasped by the hospital,
shivers from its loneliness. unbalanced by light,
it puckers and wells up. fear-peeled irises
scream into empty space, into an onerous
future looming and absorbing and spitting them
back out like bullets.
baby does not cry anymore.
baby swallows its words instead of milk
and feeds on rocks instead of mush.
baby breaks new teeth on igneous
to be strong like earth, like brick, like cold,
not cloud. baby pounds feelings into bone,
into stone. baby dreams of towers of steel
and hardens itself to soldier.
but future arrives and tears through baby’s armour.
it lies. it lies about the strength
of flesh and blood and brain. it whispers of
the chemical of human conscience. it convinces
baby that it can be tender like sunlight,
like warmth. baby believes future when it warns
that weapons of unknown, hurt.
but future can love, too.
it loves with rainbows after rain
and food after hunger and baby swears
it is hungry.
baby and future sign an armistice
and merge until
they are one.
Farah Ghafoor is a fifteen-year-old poet and a founding editor at Sugar Rascals. She believes that she deserves a cat and/or outrageously expensive perfumes, and can’t bring herself to spend pretty coins. Her work is published in places like alien mouth, Really System and Synaesthesia, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Find her online at fghafoor.tumblr.com
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