'Twisted Sickness' by Kayleigh Padar

Don't let her bony fingers grip the toilet bowl

with hollow cheeks flushed and damp

massive blue eyes seeking safety

in a suburban bathroom,

rushing rain beating against foggy window.

Outside, kids skid through puddles,

the ripples from training wheels

like sickness twisting down the drain.

Don't let the thunder send waves

through her tiny body

every crack of lightning

a whip on her visible spine

her mind tortured somewhere

far from soggy neighborhood games.

Don't let her choke out apologies to me

for drool and tears swirling on linoleum tile

for her back trapped against

peeling floral wallpaper

for borrowed toothbrush bristles

speckled brown.

Don't force her to back out of plans

miss her little sister's birthday party,

my graduation.

Don't steal window shopping with her mom,

popcorn throwing movie nights,

mud pies baked in the treehouse,

and trade her lonely, guilty blanket heaps

chilled sleepless nights

with blinds drawn shut

darkening

unfinished homework piled in

dirty teenage bedroom with

the googly eyed poster

smirking down at strewn pill bottles and

rotting tea mugs.

But, if this is the only way I can have her,

my sweet girl.

Let me text her under the dinner table

sending bands to look up

on days when a simple trip to grandma's

feels like treacherous ocean.

Let me sleep against her side

patiently awaken with every bony knee jolt

and hold matted blonde hair out of the way

every single stormy night.

Let me make her bed,

run a load of worn through laundry

swish blinds open and show her how the

cascading pale sunlight produces

rainbow film on a still puddle.