B r o k e n

Each bruise, each bump,

Each scratch, each lump:

Ignored and stored inside,

Covered with a lie.

"I tripped down the stairs,"

"I was stung by a bee,"

"I fell off my bike,"

You could never comprehend what’s happening to me.

The teacher looks and frowns;

She walks away with eyes cast down.

She has no idea of the pain;

She knows not how the little one’s heart was slain.

The poor girl comes home to a mother

Who cares not for her daughter’s heart,

Which is how she can live with herself

As she tears her child apart.