It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to
blame.
You were so helpless, and what a shame.
He invaded your body, created a wound,
took your innocence from you much too soon.
No one held your hand and said, “it would
be okay,”
they sent you back in with him, told you
to “go play.”
So deep inside hid the family secret,
and the little girl they expected to keep
it,
but you could not stay silent,
you lashed out, became defiant.
You kicked, screamed, and cut yourself.
You had been benched, your feelings on a shelf.
Then they turned on you, because you
embarrassed them so.
You told the secrets no one was supposed
to know.
They pointed their fingers, but you weren’t
to blame.
You were only a child living in pain.
The scapegoat you were. The black sheep
you’ve been,
and in sight there seemed to be no end.
You’ve
carried the burden upon your shoulders,
and prayed things would get better when
you’re older.
The pain continued, tears often shed,
and may times you wished yourself dead,
but you stood tall, as tall as can be.
Now no one will ever again bring you to your
knees.
