AIDS Brand
Ugly
Short black hair, big dark eyes.
A petite body, a small mouth, a porcelain face.
A small body, a young age.
Such a vivacious little girl,
With a an irresistible smile.
But to others she is ugly,
Despite being a normal little girl.
She is not worthy of adoring looks,
Motherly doting,
Or a father’s protection.
She is ugly.
Monster
Is what the people whisper about her.
She’s infectious to the touch,
A spawn of evil.
Don’t be fooled by the appearance,
Don’t touch her,
Or risk damaging the family name.
It’s a matter of pride that she is branded,
A matter of society,
No matter how much she never asked to be born that way.
She is a monster.
Cocoon
Machines and tubes surround her.
People in white coats rush in and out of her room.
But she is slowly, slowly changing.
The pain in her body is slowly receding.
This physical body is but a shell,
A cocoon for her ultimate change for freedom.
And as that heart monitor slows down…
It’s almost over…almost over…
The little girl thinks frantically, feeling light,
It’s…over.
The flat line sounds the end of the metamorphosis.
Wings
Her body is lighter,
She has wings,
Wings of a bird,
Wings of a butterfly just born,
Wings to fly away.
Over the smoke and smog of Saigon she flies.
Over the roar of the motorcycle.
She goes to a place beyond the words of “monster” that brand her.
She goes beyond the dark room she was imprisoned in.
She is no longer a devil’s spawn,
But she is pure, as pure as any little girl is.
She flies to a place of joy founded only after life,
A place where no one knows the word that brands...