Somewhere inside me, I’m six.  Not the way people say it so they can pretend not to need to be responsible.  Not the way people say it to pretend they’re innocent somewhere deep inside them.  Not the way anyone says it.

There’s a six year old inside of me with large, dark eyes that look tragic, though that little girl hasn’t learned what tragedy means.  She knows the word; she’s smart. But she doesn’t know what it means yet.

That’s the way that little girl is.  She knows, but she doesn’t understand.  And now, with those eyes that haunt me, she begs me to make her understand.  Desperately she beats upon the glass that separates her from me, yearning for someone who can explain to her what it means.  Why it is.

And I crack inside, right down my soul.  I can’t make that little girl understand.  If I could, would I? Would I steal away her hope that somehow it doesn’t make sense?  She wouldn’t want to know that suffering, pain, any kind of unhappiness made sense. Yet how could I leave her in that torture of not knowing?  Her fingers glide over the surface of the truth of the world, but her eyes are cast in darkness.

I fight inside myself, wondering, and my heart splits in two.  No matter what I do, I’ll never be able to let that little girl understand.  I want her back. In rage, I howl at the darkness, hating it passionately. I cry silently, fissures starting in my lungs and twining hot fingers up over my vocal cords, my eyes, and then my brain.

In my own way, I beat back against the glass that separates the two of us.  She needs me so terribly. I can’t let her suffer alone, and yet on she suffers.  Powerlessly I curse everything that ever hurt her, but it’s too late.

The only thing I have left is the tears I shed silently in the deep of night for her, hoping Something somewhere can hear me and can make it right for that little girl I could never help.

2 thoughts on “Tragedy

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