21st Century Kid

Arietta, nineteen,
Looks into mirror every morning.
The purple – black bruises have only turned darker,
The wheezing, coughing, have worsened since last night.
A-I-D-S,
Stamped all over.

Bryce, seventeen,
Stares at pillow.
Clumps and clumps of dark hair,
His hair.
On the virgin white cloth.
The chemotherapy will help for only that much longer.

Candice, sixteen,
Tries to suck her stomach in further.
Even with ribs sticking out,
And twig-like arms,
She tells herself she’s just not skinny enough,
The toilet fresh with the smell of a minute ago’s vomit.

Damien, thirteen,
Whimpers and cries in a dark corner.
New sores and wounds, bleeding,
Left behind by The New Man.
He grabs the bottle of pills beside the bedroom lamp,
Can’t wait to crawl into bed with Teddy, sleep forever.

Eva, fourteen,
Lies on bed, naked.
Wonders when she’ll get herself out of this cycle.
Tired, filled with fatigue,
In a body not her own anymore.
She wants to stop servicing herself, but there’s no way out.

Frank, eighteen,
Hooked.
Cocaine, heroin, pot, ecstasy,
You name it, he’s tried it.
Days like these, when he can’t get any,
His head feels so heavy, the world spinning like a top.

Gina, twelve,
Can’t understand the mess around her.
People lying on the streets, smoke everywhere.
Strange looking men patrolling the streets
Outside the rubble that used to be her house,
Her mother dead beside her.

Howard, fifteen,
On the cobbled grounds of an alley.
Bleeding and broken.
They had called him filth and dirt,
Punched him, kicked him, spat on him.
But the wounds that hurt are those of colour prejudice.

Irin, sixteen,
Turns on the TV.
Images of perfect teens and models,
Happy people with perfect lives fill the screen.
Makes anyone wonder:
Is it a correct depiction of the 21st century kid?

Geraldine Cheng
4E