100 Years

My finger hurts
I poked it on a spindle
And it’s my birthday, too

People rush in the door
“What?” I ask, “What’s wrong?”
And then they tell me

One hundred years
A long time to sleep
I am afraid now
But all I can think about
Is the pain in my finger

“Don’t be sacred,”
They tell me
But I am
They cannot understand
What it is to be so cursed

I will be alone
Alone in my mind
For a very long time
And it frightens me
My mind is a dark place

I wish I could concentrate
On more than my finger
And how much it hurts
As darkness closes in
And reality slips away

View this story's 2 comments.