
Antique scars lay dormant in picture books
from slabs of abused concrete and torn curtains.
[and I'm not talking about the house]
Put a roof over our head and you think we're family,
like ignoring the discolored skin and missing teeth is okay.
This isn't home, but a prison.
Daddy's not a parent, but a guard,
making sure she doesn't escape.
If a picture is a thousand words,
then they're screaming all of theirs.
It's not a hug in the morning and an "I love you"
before they head off to school and Daddy goes to work.
But it's more like a "Daddy get off me" and "Stop hitting Mommy",
wishing he didn't eye their bodies like candy when they woke up
in the morning, still in their pajamas.
This house is where fire falls and souls hang on for dear life.
When children cry, we know they aren't alright.
It's not a nightmare that they've seen when they sleep,
but it's what they're living in real life.
Don't question the scars and rainbows.
Love isn't expressed up against walls and with torn clothes.






















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