not the city of omelas

when the child was put into the room, their hair was golden and wavy, like sunshine rays. they were naked. their pupils were small and their blue irises shone faintly. the whites were stark, clean, pristine. they had been picked out of their bed, given away by womb, and placed in this new room. it smelled terrible, this room. the little hands groped at their holder, begging, straining. the child did not want to go in this new room.

when the child was taken out of the room, their hair was black and matted to its head, like an emaciated dog. they were naked. their eyes were open, but no life filled them; the blue had turned to grey, the whites red and swollen, pupils wide and unmoving. they had been picked up from their room and carried out to the building behind the cemetery and placed with the others. it smelled terrible, this new room. the little hands hung limply at their sides, almost grazing the ground.
 

lily veronica

MA

YWP Alumni

More by lily veronica

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    the way my lungs beg for air, and yet i refuse.

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    warm when wrapped ‘round my wrist

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