In a Thing Named Poetry

Home was a term used loosely,

It was a place for her to lay her head, 

It was a place for her to spend her weekends.

An escape if you will, 

but only for the night. 

For the day was consumed, 

by fear and torment. 

The creepy touches that spread across her skin, 

The bruises that littered her body. 

Home was a welcomed escape,

But it was not home,

Not truly.

Pushed around, 

beaten down.

So hard not to lose hope, 

So difficult to not go numb. 

A porcelean doll, 

that lost its voice. 

Her screams were silent, 

Her pain invisible. 

There was no way to express it, 

not without fear and anxiety.

But the doll stood up, 

and she found her voice,

in a thing named poetry.