She was fed with a fork. Never could get her soup from the bowl, and there were no straws to hold the nutrients inside while she tried to suck it all up. This was her life, hoping to climb, but the trees never had limbs, mountains were too smooth, and even when she went to the beach, the waters were far too dry. Starfish died. Things were so hard for her at times that the good life would have been something she would have never denied.
She would cry sometimes because her loose change never made a dollar, and there were times that the streets failed to make a strong delivery to ease her monetary misery. Her feet could walk, and she was thankful, but they remained scorched because her dainty sandals were hand-me-overs, being passed from one person to another, with holes in the soles.
People were so cold, her torn winter coat wasn’t enough protection from their scolds. It was the icy weather that kept her warm, made her remember that it was just a seasonal storm that would pass, while the hatred battered her over-moisturized yet still far too dry skin, not to mention her eyes. She would blame the freezing wind on her tears to camouflage her cries.
She ate with a fork. Never could get her soup from the bowl, and there were never any straws to hold the nutrients inside so she could try to suck it down. She didn’t want to appear like a glutton at the table full of strangers who could use their utensils to sop their food out. She opted to wait on their escape, when they would all leave the room, to turn her bowl of water back down her throat…
Because she didn’t have a spoon.
NOT SPOON-FED, a featured poem in my upcoming 2017 book of poetry.
Read any of my novels, novellas, or collections right here at mirikacornelius.com, and be sure to read Curse the Cotton now.