Squished
11.10.2022
One silly little mistake
in the span of a second
meant the end of life for another.
A second that has lingered
and lurked in the dark
places of my mind,
where I hide squished lizards.
I blamed his death on the neighbor kid,
but I never stopped
blaming myself, inside.
Blaming the little girl
with pale little hands,
and crooked little teeth,
who squished the toe of a lizard,
the reptile reaper.
I wanted to hold him
so bad.
But I did not yet know
how to hold things.
How to cage them carefully
with gentle flesh
and thoughtful grip
so I did not kill
the things I held.
My fingers were death
though my heart meant love.
And my reach was curious,
consuming -
with only one thought;
I want to hold him.
Before I could control myself
I could, between death fingers
and curious reach, control life.
The reptile reaper,
with tears in her eyes
dedicated to the tiny lizard
and his squished toe
from which his life force bled.
Tears for years beyond his
natural lifespan.
Tears that became paper birds
flitting from inky black memory,
to reluctant notebook diary,
and back out into the world.
To the sandy hill
where we first caught the lizard
who never had a name.
Who didn't live past the first day,
except for somewhere inside
little girl wishes.
Strung delicately out of hope
torn by little girl regrets,
is a place where lizards still dwell,
toes unsquished,
and little girls look
but keep their death fingers to themselves.