I carry the pain she feels
Every time his voice finds her face
Every time her small body hits the bathroom floor
Every time her face is wet with tears,
Ten year old eyes should never produce.
I felt these things once too.
But that was long ago.
Too long ago for me to help her now.
Her pain is still fresh while mine sits beneath my skin,
Boiling every time he speaks to me.
I had an out – once or twice every few months was my charge.
She lives in that bathroom –
That locked door between Mortality and Hell - Purgatory.
We aren’t even Catholic.
I wonder if she will share my hate in the end.
He ruins me – like a band-aid,
Continuously being ripped off my scarring flesh.
How scarred is her skin?
Can her friends see these marks? Can mine?
Hers are worse, I can already tell.
Six more months until the consequence of a divorce I didn't choose
Will be forever behind me.
She has eight years.
I pray for her every day.
I do not pray enough.
Do you?