She hid away in the closet, keeping the door pulled tight in hopes of blocking out the yelling' it didn't.
She wished the walls were soundproof; that the drug-fueled rage built up inside of him will end soon; it won't.
She held onto her little brother tight, hoping the white noise of the T.V. she turned up loud would work as well as her hands against his ears; neither do.
She hears the noise of furniture being flipped and broken, she holds her brother back but fails to keep from saving mommy; he doesn't.
She flings herself out in front of the little boy as the first swing is interrupted by her stomach, she hopes he will run away; he just stares.
She can bare;y stand when it's all over, her arms feel like string and her stomach is full of sharp pointing needles. She hopes he's gone for good this time; he's not.
She looks at her mother who is clinging to a handful of pills like she does the hope of seeing her father again one day; she never will.
She goes into the bathroom to cover her bruises and fix her hair because the bus comes in thirty minutes. She hopes no one will accidentally touch her bruises; they will.
She gets through the day, stole some extra food at lunch for her brother, and impatiently takes the bus home. She hopes there's enough for her to eat; there isn't.
She hides in their room and listens to music to block out the coughing outside her door and as she lays her brother down to sleep she hopes it'll all get better one day; it will.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of a Young Mind
PoetryIt's exactly what it sounds like. My teachers and friends have pushed at me for years to expose my poetry to more than just them and myself so....that's what this is. I actually don't write a lot of poems about being Trans, but you might find one o...
