Change
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