Born From Pain

Hid­ing her face
behind the veil of her long black hair

The young girl is sit­ting in front of me, slumped,
as if to shield her­self
from an unre­lent­ing assault
of disappointment

Her fin­gers are slowly twirling her hair
and I see her nails are tor­tured by biting

I touch her hand and she does not acknowl­edge me,
she does not resist

It lies life­less in my gen­tle grasp as if not to be dis­ap­pointed
if she resisted
and I let go

She can­not allow her­self to feel the desire for touch,
for connection

I feel her pain as a blan­ket thrown over us both

It muf­fles sounds
and makes it hard to breathe

Like a numb­ing fog,
with the rot­ting odor of hope decaying

In her silence she is defi­ant
as if to not give the world the sat­is­fac­tion
of know­ing her pain

Yet, her heart bleeds more than it pumps,
and scars are form­ing on her soul

And she seeks solace in the very lone­li­ness
that is tear­ing and claw­ing at her

I reach out and gen­tly raise her head
by the tip of her chin

And my thumbs wipe away the fresh­est tears
from her stained cheeks

A car­ing but futile ges­ture
as more tears are already welling
in her red­dened eyes

And I can do noth­ing
to ease her pain

Noth­ing to make her eyes dance,
to make her heart beat

Because I am noth­ing;
because I was never there

The girl is a woman now,
vibrant and com­plex and powerful

The girl comes alive to me
when I read her words
and her stories

Between her words I see dark­ness
sur­round­ing her like a cloak

Born from loneliness

Bred from sadness

Raised in darkness

She does not want to hear lies

No con­de­scend­ing plat­i­tudes
that tomor­row will be another day

No sym­pa­thetic looks
that slide off her so very quickly

I wish I could reach through the bars of time

Through the spaces
between her words

And com­fort her
for just a lit­tle while,
to reas­sure her

Out of her pain will come great beauty

Music, songs, poetry, and stories

And if the young girl
could meet the woman she will become

She would be proud of her.