Change

Mon, 04/18/2016 - 23:51 -- h.roark

His touch wasn't kind, and so neither is her heart. She doesn't have a curved, easy smile. It's as sharp as the knifed that stabbed her in the back millions of times before. Her laughter is no longer loud and full, but more of a whimper, much like the sound she made each time his hands found her. People say change is good. She's proof that it isn't. 

This poem is about: 
My family

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