“Am I getting better, daddy?” she asks me.

tubes and needles everywhere

poking, intruding, drawing, taking,

all without a moment’s respite.

“Yes, you are, my little angel”, I lie to her with false alacrity.

 

“Am I getting better, daddy?” she asks me.

chemicals that bleach her into pallor

drugs that take away her crowning glory of soft, golden curls

foreign bodies that they pump to defile her.

“Yes, you are, my little angel”, I convince her, and me, with base cruelty.

 

“Am I getting better, daddy?” she asks me.

smiling bravely through tears of pain

sensing an inevitability

with every tortured breath, she slips away.

“Yes, you are, my little angel”, I whisper with accepted finality.

 

© 2021 S Phua