Thread: "this poem is against child abuse" (but is about child abuse)

Holding her breath,
she screamed.
Not out loud.
On the outside she looked pale and pensive.


Her eyes were drained of all energy and spark.
She sat there in silence thinking, to herself.
Thinking awful thoughts of awful things.
She stopped herself,
swearing that someone could hear her,
though even if she were screaming her thoughts through sterio into their ears,
no one would have answered her destressed calls for help.


This is not her speaking,
its just a little girl breaking through.
Pushed back,
away,
into the locked chambers of a drug-abused mind.


The little girl weeps in a corner clutching her broken spirit and broken glass.
Shards of glass prod her bloodstained porcelin hands as she calls out for someone to let her out,
let her put the pieces to the other side of the broken childhood puzzle together.
She is ignored, she tells her story anyways.


They only hit you if you speak up,
if you say something they don't like. Never argue,
never correct,
don't you dare cry.
It's kind of like falling and every time you think you finally grabbed onto something stable,
they step on your hands until you fall once again.

It never stops.
One day you hope to get away from domestic abuse.
You follow foolish dreams of love and beauty.
You are returned full of pills and hatred.
Always returning to the place in your mind where I live.
Thinking to yourself if only I had a better childhood.

if only someone cared But it's not true.
Your white trash blood runs thick enough for you to know that hoping for a happy childhood,
a "noble" birth, is uncalled for.
You will make it,
oh how you will make it. Never quite filling up the hollows,
like trying to pour water into a bucket with a perforation.

Relentlessly she listens to the little girl,
for the first time,
letting heal some of the long since infected wounds from abused ego,
abused body,
abused mind.
Little girls get hit.

Little girls get raped.
Little girls get broken and recklessly thrown away.
Groping hands from little boys and older men,
terror flooding the minds of innocent little girls whos first crystal years are stolen,
and broken,
and sold off in pawn shops.

If you have the abused one in your mind,
don't be afraid to let her out.
Hold her hand and hush her to sleep.
She just wanted to be loved,
you pretend she doesn't even exist.

Don't forget the past because the present depression is holding you by the neck.
Little girls are innocent.
On the outside.
Little girls are free.

If protected. Little girls grow up,
hopefully not like you, and not like me.