She stoops over the cement, drowning in a
puddle of burnt tar that oozes, leaking from her
claws in a torrential downpour of poisoned
taffy, a trap for those who lurk in the shadows.
She is a child’s chalk drawing sprung to life.
Each scale lovingly etched, each feathered wing
a masterpiece of youth’s spirited imagination.
Created by tiny hands that wished only the best for her.
But those wishes turned to fear, and the fear
turned to hate, and the hate festered.
Squeezed the wonder from the golden hearted child, the hate
kicked her, beat her, imprisoned her, sang the
Devil’s song in her ear, an endless rhythm
of “evil”, “worthless”, “unwanted”, “monster”.
A song that pierced her, a song
that she accepted as truth, until she knew
nothing but anger. Each breath a spew of
poison. Each heartbeat the stab of a knife.
Each tear a drop of acid raining down on
that golden hearted child who gave her life.
That evil hearted child who left her to bear
the burden of sorrow’s aching centuries,
that beat out every spark of hope burning
in her heart, until all she had left to give was hate.
How can something so beautiful be filled with such sorrow?