Brave little girl, as you lie in your bed,
With eyes moist and blurry from tears still unshed.
And the thoughts uncontrolled lay siege to your head,
as you valiantly try to dismiss what was said.

You’d been introduced early to emotions so hollow.
You were used to them, felt safe, and knew they would follow.
Brave to the core, not wishing to wallow,
You’d be forced to take pain, so much criticism swallow.

But this pain was different, more than just sad.
It robbed you of identity, what little you had,
and defined your existence as something so bad
that it left your own mother depressed and half mad.

You should not have been here, was what she had said.
Her shame was so deep that she wished she was dead.
With this disgrace, and the cruel rumours it spread,
she wished that the child had been adopted instead.

The hollowness and emptiness were now making sense.
No comparisons available, your first line of defence
was cognitive ignorance and a practiced pretence.
The subconscious desire to bury is immense.

Little child, you listened, mistaking the meaning.
Nurtured without love, on this guilt you were weaning.
No wonder your life, all the years intervening
has tended to veer towards status demeaning.

Little girl, there is pain. You are owed a great debt,
But you are older and wiser; this is no longer a threat.
Dry those tears, reassess, and try to forget.
Let nothing impede. You are you! Violet!


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