close your small velveteen ears, darling,
don’t pay heed to the waste of voices
and their restful, rabid resemblance
with your callous crimes, and dither from
repentance, free every broken song
and write an equal-footed murmur
with your sagacious mouth — sewn shut —
all your comeuppance unstrung on time.
never drink from the well of knowledge,
for it heralds the end of peace, and
keep hostage, the calamity of
your condition — dreadful purple and
slated fates, furtive in a fragile
dance — a duel between demand and
need for self-effacement, bringing forth
the wreckage of woebegone endings.
fingers for eating, lips for smiling,
cheeks to be always flushed the right shade
of painted roses — pink and red and
every shade of bloom, flourishing in
the din of hollowed-out bones — tendons
that stick out in felicitation
of life — your awareness has come to
light — switch off your mind before it tries.
Disclaimer: Not really meant for children. Ha!
Image source: Self Portrait on the Operating Table by Edvard Munch