I don’t play, I work


I am 8 years old
I dream of
flowers in my hair
dolls in my lap
fancy frocks to wear
a story book to read
enough food to eat
hugs from my father
kisses from my mother
pats from my teachers
but I don’t play
I work
tending to others flower
at the factory
mending dolls
stitching frocks
stapling story books
packing food
all accounted for
by the supervisor
a slight mistake
a slap across my face
stings the bones underneath
tears burn my cheeks
and blood tastes funny
what else can I do
I get no hugs
nor kisses
nor pats on my back
it’s heavy on my shoulders
but I have a world to carry
so I swallow my own blood
I have to finish here
to avoid
another slap


9 thoughts on “I don’t play, I work

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