One Little Boy

He is just a little boy.

I’d never seen eyes like that,

like the ones that were watching me then,

hallowed, gauging whether

I might be a threat to him.

Cute when he was happy,

so small, he looked 3.

Because they starved him.

He would talk to you.

Short sentences.

Speech stopped progressing

at age 3.

When he got angry,

he would use horrible words.

The only tool he ever learned

for emotions that he couldn’t understand.

Curses.

Wild threats.

He would spit in your face

and threaten to kill you.

Who taught him that?

His only tools.

He is just a little boy.

Meeting him

at a time that

I was absolutely

powerless,

crumpled my

hope and

understanding of

reality.

I couldn't help him,

and the ones who could

treated him like

a chore,

mindless work

without reward.

Grown-ups,

tasked to protect him,

held him down

yelling demands of complacency.

What kind of things

did they force on him back home?

Of course, he spit the pills out,

he couldn’t possibly

understand.

There is that

word again.

If you say

“It’s like he’s three.”

Then you cannot 

treat him like

a prisoner, for

he has committed no crime.

His parents hurt him 

in so many ways.

I still cry for him some nights,

I can't imagine how he felt,

alone in that room.

They assumed he’d

attack, yelling at him for 

looking at anyone too close,

he was trying to show me his drawing.

Behind his eyes

Lies an island of nightmares.

There is no turnaround here,

now I know:

I am the one

who couldn’t possibly understand.

He is just a little boy

who deserves to know what love feels like.

This is an old poem that I wasn't ready to share a year ago. It's all true, about a 7-year-old boy I met who had just started in foster care because his parents were found to be extremely negligent and horrifyingly abusive. I know there are other kids, too many, with similar stories to him, but I haven't met them. I met him and I saw him and I think about him. I hope he is okay.