Sins of the father,
inflicted on the child,
whispered threats of silence,
followed with a smile.
Acting very properly
within the light of day,
then turning into something else,
when all have gone away.
Endless hateful hurting words,
a slap, a touch, a grope.
Never knowing what comes next,
not knowing how to cope.
Made to feel like nothing more,
than just some dirt and grime,
a struggle with her sanity,
she lost from time to time.
A fight to break the pattern,
so the sins do not pass on,
ensuring happy memories,
that youth may dream upon.
The evil, sick and twisted games,
to which the world was blind
her childhood lost forevermore,
buried within her mind.
© Deborah Woolverton
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