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Battered, forsaken children may never disregard those who have set their bruises,

nor how they became marked.

It becomes habit to flinch at mimicking movement

Why fabrication of the false heart is looked upon as tolerable,

And why these broken fragments remain usual,

Can only become clear to an observer such as myself,

Once grudge has given way.

But my mind won't forget what was

And I walk backwards in a cautious forward motion.

The abuser who wore his face is still fresh in my mind.

His prospect lies distorted on the cement with its head cut off.

As he stands sightless upon its remains

His eyes, decorated and callow

He chuckles at those sparkles in the sunshine

Blinded by light of a hallow illusion of what could be new feeling of empathy.

Words are folly to the wounded

Who take nothing to heart and question all intention.

Once a wolf in sheepskin

Will forever remain so.

I'm all out of faith for a pure hearted dawn which befalls all a man's demons.

I know change, and though it may be wanted

I can never forget the nails which tore the flesh

The scars which remind me to flinch

Are the reasons I can never tell him I love him

Without having played an embittered trick.

Learn more about this author, Brittany Murrietta.
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