Will I be the prodigal daughter
who returns?
Or the scapegoat
who escapes?

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

I can't help but
look over my shoulder
with every step.
Will she come after me?

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

In a way,
I'm still that little girl
reaching to be picked up
and no one is paying attention.

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

The wounds are as fresh as
the day they were made
and no one can see them
except me.

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

She won't look at me.
She's reaching to be picked up,
but she's grown.
And so am I now.

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

The difference between us is
I'd never put that burden on a child.
If a baby reached for me,
I'd pick her up and wipe her tears.