My Six Year Old Keeper

Pre-mature Insomniac; a resting heart rate of 87 beats per minute, breath after breath, she abruptly wakes up because she knows that sleep won’t make it better. It’s just life’s way of politely counting down until your sentence, your penalty.

She copes because she has no other choice; nobody cares enough to help her, guide her, teach her, or rescue her from the inevitable storm that’s ahead.

A four inch bullet plummets through my chest, I mean her chest. We die happily as one, because now we can only hope that life has just begun.

She’s already so far downward that six feet is a compromise because she has become acclimated to nine. Let’s get comfortable, as we shuffle below the asphalt in the silt that dances gently through the tips of my fingers. She feels safe here. We lay and wonder how the water is light enough to slip between the crevices of one’s toes, but heavy enough to sustain a ship.

That’s how she is, delicate enough to plunge through the core of the earth, but strong enough to carry it on her shoulders. We laugh and cry together. Burning tears that singe from the ducts just beneath the Iris.  We as in the little girl I once was, and the young adult that I am today.


This poem is about: 
Guide that inspired this poem: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741