By: Skye Sayer-Sharp
I wrote a story on my bedroom floor
about small robots and their misadventures.
I wondered if through the page
I could somehow become them.
But my body was still mine as I hit
the final line,
on that blue carpet floor, I remained.
As I blew out the candles
on my ninth birthday cake
my wish was to see my tenth.
Anxiety tore through my whole tiny body.
I just couldn’t picture it.
Which to me meant, by then,
I’ll be dead.
Author's bio
Skye has been writing since she learned how to, it's the only way she can make sense of her feelings. Her only hope is that her writing means something to someone and resonates. Even if in the end it isn't successful.