that a baby
is supposed to fill
waved at me from a distance.
I saw it
burst, what emerged
porcelain doll cheeks,
lips that refuse to meet.
She screams “You should have chosen me!”
Then she leaves.
Only her silvery imprint remains;
branded on my brain.
I stare into the space she filled,
then down another handful of pills.
shapes of the computer age,
yet half scrawled over in paints.
The paint’s preoccupation being to
black out the blank screen
up to its next cycle of darkness.
Labels blaze in, pale grey fire.
They say “liar”.
They say “pain”.
They say “damned”.
They say “create”.
Sarah Gonnet © 2015
These poems are taken from the upcoming chapbook Voices (Survivors’ Poetry)