A secluded box.

I read an article about rape.  I’m not familiar, per se, with such an experience.  Other scenarios are all to familiar however.

She picked up a pebble and rolled the edges along her finger pads.

After a few moments, she let it tumble back to the jagged bed.

Her dirt encrusted nails reach up, scratching her face.

Her disheveled curls flow in the wind.

Hunched over, knees bent, she cradles herself.

Overhead peels of children laughter is heard.

They stomp on plastic platforms, no cares.

Meanwhile, here sits the dejected girl.

She was released from her isolated corner only moments before.

Without her blanket, her refuge is found in the isolated sea of rocks and dirt.

The little girl is shamed for carrying around the frayed fabric.

To her, it is a source of comfort.

Mom and Dad work all day and entrusted her to the care of this negligent woman.

The extroverted girl sprouted and veils the past through frail bones, bathroom retreats, and self-mockery.

She delivered her own bundle and sadly has to work, entrusting her in the care of others.

Her parents trusted the care provider.  The girl tries to trust hers.

Then her daughter is returned with scratches on her back and an apathy towards wetness that didn’t exist prior to outside care.

Is the little, helpless girl passing on an unwanted baton?  Will she have to once again mend the eruptive, silent horrors that flow from isolation and neglect?

Oh Lord, let it not be so.  Into your care, I pray, may history not beat the same drum and the daughter’s song sing the same as her mother’s.  Alter the melody and bring harmony in chaos.

 

*title needs work.

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2 Replies to “A secluded box.”

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