Like children with blocks,
they take each problem and hold it in their hands.
They complain about how dull the colors are, how
sharp the edges and corners are.
They press the blocks against them until they bleed.
They show me the blood.
They say it is my fault.
Their minds are not constant. Their attention
ebbs and flows like the Atlantic.
They are, in the same moment, both cresting
and being swalloed whole.
They say they can't breathe.
They say it is my fault.
And it is.
And I will choke and drown them all until the child that cannot is finally lifeless on the floor of this place. The child that can, peeling off banana skin and rising (some fruit phoenix) to the task.
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