I am Anne, persecuted for my deficiency of being part of the Jewish pestilence.

I hear something in the night, a whisper which reminds me of suffering souls.

I see the tragedy, here, as bones stick out through translucent skin and darkness stains fearful eyes.

I say so many things, and wonder if they matter at all, but say them anyway.

I cry, even though crying seems senseless...I cry for gassed souls torn from bodies and tossed into a cold winter.

I am Anne, who places the brave mask on from eight to twelve, but lets it slip away after.

I am Anne, the littlest, the naive one, who dreams enough for all of us.

I want to soar high above and then freefall as far as I can.

I need to wipe my mind’s slate of such silly notions.

I hope I will never do so, for such fantasies pass the nights and remind me of an abundant past.

I fear that these imaginings will destroy me, that longing will devour my heart and throw my careless body to Hitler.

I am Anne, atop a white horse, galloping through the hills…free.

I am Anne, tending to heartaches.

I feel that this hole we’ve pushed ourselves into will murder us faster than before starvation or Nazis could.

I try to be right always, although my faults seem to shine brighter than anything else.

I wonder if the bombs outside my window will ever stop storming.

I dream that they will, and that a rain of music and celebration will never stop cascading.

I am Anne, some days more dead than alive, but always wishing.