Living It
Cold, shivering, sobbing
The child rested in the caresses of trial
Born to the world’s cruel malice
Foreign touches leave her breathless
Distress…confusion…adaption
Grateful for the chance to live
Bitter for what was and what could never be seen
Dirty…so dirty
Little hands that have been places no child would wander
Trapped in an imagination only formed
By reality’s free-fall…
Into familiar, stark waters
Deserving it was out of the picture
Living it was ever her fate
Something told her there was more
Beyond that strong, wooden door
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