By Yvette Michelle Holland
The teacher draws the curtain
And sees you coming, late again.
Slowly walking in the schoolyard
As if something hard is shoved
Between your paper doll legs.
Your head has fallen to the right
And she has to see that you
Are brain dead with gazing eyes
And saliva seeping through the sides
Of your creased mouth --
Your only way to vent
For tired frequent tears
Have lost their strength to relieve
So now they don't even try.
She sees your little red hands
Forced into the tight flesh of your father's fist.
He walks straight and fast
Dragging you along.
Proud of the torture
That you are too tiny to contest
Already forgetting your screams last night
When he reached up your pale pink dress
And rammed his hatred through to your soul.
Site by DPE.
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