What Do You Really Know



Alone in the corner they sit at their desk,

Pulling down sleeves to cover their bruises.

With frightened eyes they follow every hand,

Even though here they are safe.

They look at you and hope you know,

They hope someone can make it end.


Everyday he debates how his life could end,

He thinks of the medicine on his mother’s desk,

Take it out in the woods, no one would know,

There would be no cuts or bruises.

Maybe the gun in his Father’s Safe?

“Wouldn’t it be nice to take your life in your own hands?”


He grips together his trembling hands,

He’s anxiously waiting for the class to end,

Waiting for his drugs to make him feel safe.

The craving has him curled around his desk,

He pokes at his needle–induced bruises,

He won’t get caught in the bathroom, he knows.


Sobbing silently, she whispers “no”,

She knows where he will guide her hands,

His touches leave her with unseen bruises,

She lies there silently and waits for it to end.

But you can’t tell as she fakes a smile at her desk,

No one would think she’s not safe.


The doctor’s kind words make her feel safe,

He asks her sternly if her parents know,

She shakes her head as he watches her across his desk.

Where the baby should grow she places her hands,

By this time tomorrow it’s life would end,

But she would always have these bruises.


Every day their words leave her with bruises,

She hopes one day these halls will be safe,

She waits for the day their taunting will end,

But everyone acts like they don’t know.

And she can’t do anything; it’s out of her hands,

They’re all she can hear when sitting at her desk.


If you can’t see all their bruises, what do you really know?

You say in school you can feel safe, but you let them slip through your hands.

You have the power to make it end, but you just hide behind your desk.


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