Cam Little

Growing up life was simple,
Not too many troubles at all,
Parents were happy and so were my brothers,
Until I cracked my head open against the ground.
Nothing but pain swept through my body,
The bone tingling scratch on my scalp was deep,
And thoughts of “I Hate You, Cousin” screamed within.
Touching the wound was scary, leading only to shock,
As dark, calm blood poured onto my hands.
The blood was flowing evenly, and had a cool texture to it,
The incision was chaotic and unruly.
The bone sliced my finger and added more blood,
And the effect of its cuts had me screaming for help.
Knocked out and awake somewhere,
The dreadful smell of expired latex and cheap furniture polish fumigated my senses,
Letting me know exactly where I had awoken.
“You must be awake for the procedure,” said the man,
Sending thoughts of  “Oh my God,” and “What did I do?” though my mind.
He slipped on the rubbery, powdered glove and reached for an electric razor,
And turned it on, alerting me to a level I’ve never been before, scared, as I lay alone.
The feeling of the razor was rejuvenating, and tingly, while it tickled the brownish roots,
Removing them from the bloodstained scalp of mine.
The doctor’s cologne was unpleasant and off-putting,
Yet somehow relaxing against the other scents.
I trusted the man, after finally realizing what was going on,
I’d been hurt, and he was going to help me…
Or so I thought.
The staple pinned though the scalp, bone and all,
Feeling as though it had destroyed my fleshy brain.
Again and again the same pain swept through my head, and I screamed,
“Where are my parents?” I asked, expecting him to know,
He shrugged, and again the forceful blow of tiny metal plunging into my head
Owned my body.