By: Evelyn Dianne Rodarte
I kneel on rice
my hands are in the air
with books on my hands
my skin is screaming
as every little grain digs deeper
into my skin. My body is aching
as I am only six and
can not carry the weight of five
books on each hand.
These books that felt more like boulders
You told me this was my punishment
But mom all I did was spill
my glass of milk.
The self who has become weak,
she is numbed by the pain
these grains of rice that
felt more like glass
have now imprinted on her skin.
She takes herself into oblivion in hopes
she’d get rid of her despair
as any place is better than one, she’s in.