At six, she was a victim,
a casualty of war,
with an innocence and a fate that is so grim.
On Monday, she told me of her wounds
inflicted upon her by betrayal
and trust in a big old loon.
At eight, she was heart-broken.
A shell of broken glass-
of hate,
of tears.
On Tuesday, I realized that she was just a scared little lass.
At ten, she was bullied.
She was isolated,
given no chance to prove that
she did not deserve to be hated.
On Wednesday, she sat near the window with her favorite books, watching the hours tick away-
watching the skies for what remains of him.
At thirteen, she wanted to die.
She spent hours crying.
She spent hours trying
not to hear the voices
and to God, she was praying.
On Thursday, I collected her tears-
they faded, but not her doubts and fears.
At fourteen, she's a soldier.
Unfeeling,
not crying,
not bullied,
not dying.
One Friday, she told me that her heart is colder.
Catch a glimpse,
make a wish,
her hand is out for you to hold,
but her feelings are guarded by a lock.
