She, is the image of childhood boy crushes’,
Powerful in all that is her own.
She, is the definition of beauty;
Humble and unaware of her strength.
She, is the outcome of parents who love the scabs left on their skin, more than they love the very things they created.
Her eyes, that which remind me of spring, are fogged with cigarette smoke and glazed with the reality, that this, is normal.
Her mind is not occupied by gossip and ubiquitous laughter, but drowning in the thoughts of her mother;
Haunted by the question that is seeping through the hole in her soul created by the threatening gun shots of her father, “Is she even alive?”
Wanting nothing more than affection, showing it, through rejection.
She is a victim of ****** abuse, letting her fears be known by being terrified to walk hand in hand with a man.
She is eleven, and although her past is nothing but pain and misery, I know that her future is wider than the oceans in which she used to play;
Her dreams are bigger than the waves that came crashing down only to knock her over like a domino, for she has always been able to stand back up.