Midnight Kids

Midnight Kids by Lou Marcial M. Cuesta

It’s 11:38 P.M. and one way or another I will die tonight.

Cradle me into the burning magenta skies, and stitch me a tapestry, woven in fear —it does not matter: I am primed for the night. I don this flesh like Jesus had worn his thorned crown: I am cursed, to carry the cross of our convoluted humanity, and play savior at the edge of our wreckage, “I refuse. But why do my palms continue to bleed?”

It’s 11:46 P.M. and my neighbors have turned to dust. I should’ve made the bible dinner instead of playtime; and listened to the weary songs of our elders: I am penitent for not praying enough. There is no greater gospel than us in this field, awake among false hummingbirds, never to see the sunrise again. “And this was always meant to be…” But is it? Spare me the yarn on discipleship and messiahs: I am in fury.

It’s 11:54 P.M. and there’s nothing left to say. When the hands of time wane to face north, those ticks will soar to thunderous applause— and the kids? Martyrs but never saints.

Midnight.