“She hurts me.”
Twelve.
Too young to know affection,
Too old to not long for its direction,
Too young to know God’s Plan,
Too old to think she won’t be penalized by the man,

“I hate her. I’m going to runaway”
Petrified.
The bolt on her door isn’t enough,
And the threats thrown her way are not a bluff,
Quivering at the sting of each blow,
As the new bright red wounds grow,

“I think I have a plan, I’m leaving tonight”
Suffocated.
An intelligent mind like no other,
But her self-worth has been crushed by her mother,
Persecuted by the reminder of pain,
Masked with a kiss so idle and feign,

“Never mind, I can’t make it on my own.”
Trapped.
Dreams of moving away from at all,
But stops in her tracks and encounters a wall,
One day she’ll climb up over that fence,
And, hopefully, from there her life will commence.