I don't know what I did wrong. I hold onto my teddy as I hear her cussing and throwing things around.
She pushes in the door with the one thing that she will hit me with again.
The hands with no love.
I don't know the warmth of mommy's hands, the sweetness of her kisses, or the love of her heart. I do know the violence of her hits, the anger in her voice and the hatred in her eyes.
The hands with no love.
I hear daddy yelling, stomping around looking for me. I try to hide in the blanket. He yells my name, comes in and throws it off.
It feels like forever for the series of hits to end, the symphony of name calling to die down, and the anger to flow away.
The hand with no love.
We don't know the hands full of love, just as another tool to use. We don't know the feeling of love and compassion, just the disgust and hatred of us. We don't know the hands as other children do. What did we do to deserve...
The Hands With No Love?