cutters, huffers, and suicide kids
look at me over toys scattered ‘cross my office floor
as we start helping them to forsake the shelter that comes with hurting

to them, i’m “Mr. John” or the bald guy in the suit coat
who has the cool toys and asks the billion questions
that they don’t have to answer if they don’t want to
despite what their mothers say or instruct or admonish

am i not the first hope and not the last but one of an endless string
on their paths from a devastated childhood toward their ultimate hopelessness?

no, i never feel that way, not even when the budding sociopath
makes the hair on the back of my neck turn into tiny knives
when he smiles and calmly says, “hitting animals is very wrong”

i’ve seen their parents
or, at least have heard about them
fathers who beat mothers, fathers who executed mothers, homeless families evading CYS and the police
and
the molesters, the Meagan Listers who were framed by the state,
who bathed their girlfriend’s sons and daughters, who didn’t know
that girl was 14 because, man, she knew what she was doing

and, the mothers
mothers who have children with each new boyfriend
before the men magically disappear after sowing seed through before delivery, their time away measured by the length of the PFA
and discussed with the DV victim in terms of the child’s age

i’ve met the foster parents
who brave the fears their families have voiced
and opened their hearts and homes to these children
as these new-to-them parents embark on missions to provide structure
consistency and nurturance to little hearts so badly broken
they can’t fathom lives beyond cutting, huffing and suicide

copyright 2109: all rights reserved
Photo: Healing Hands (Keuka Lake, NY 2015)