By Beatriz Esmer (adapted from her poem)

(A dim light. The speaker stands still, barefoot, as if just waking. They speak slowly, as if remembering something they wish they could forget.)

A shame I woke up human again this morning.
Dry-mouthed.
Sullen.
Reading—
reading what we’ve done.
What we keep doing.
To each other.
To our own.

By nature, they say.
By nature.

(Pause. A bitter laugh.)

I wish I were a glasswing butterfly.
Invisible.
Fragile.
Hidden in the world.

But no.
I’ve got mosquito bites.
Ankles. Arms.
One prickling my hand like a secret I can’t scratch away.

Too bad I’m stuck in this body.
Too bad I’m numb.
Too bad—
Good thing I’m alive, I guess.
Alive enough to dig my fingernail into each bump
like it means something.
I guess.
I guess…

(A beat. The tone shifts—softer, more distant.)

A shame I’m not a bird.
A shame we still kill each other
over land.
Over beliefs.
Over nothing.

(Long pause. The speaker looks down, as if holding something invisible.)

There’s a story I read.
It won’t leave me.
It happened last century—
but it’s happening now, too.

A father.
A child.
No place to shelter them.

Just a heavy bag
of memories
and dreams.

The drive.
The drop-off.

(Voice cracks slightly.)
“Here’s your missing children.”

(Silence. The speaker touches their own arm gently.)

A shame.
A shame.

In time, these crosses I’ve scored into my flesh—
they’ll vanish.

In time,
I might say yes.

(A long breath. The light fades slowly, leaving only the sound of breath.)

©️ Beatriz Esmer