Cigarette stubs lying on her side;
her room in a mess;
confetti from the previous night
echoing their cynical laughters;
the broken bottles playing tag on the floor.
The world outside her shut door called her a freak
said she was a mess within;
had no sense of right and wrong;
mad, awkward, bizarre,
an oddity they said.
A fault of the Gods.
What did they know who she was?
Did they see her eyes when
she was snatched away from her mother?
Did they hear her cries of pain and anguish?
Did they hold her arm and pull her out
of the dark dungeon where
she was being kept hostage?
Where were their cries of right and wrong
when her innocence was ripped from her?
Did they encourage her when she decided to escape?
Did they offer a helping hand?
Mothers warned their daughters of her;
Men stared at her like a piece of meat;
The civilized society laughed at her,
their scrutinizing gaze pierced her skin;
left a hole in her barren heart.
Did they help her when she tried to stand on her feet?
Did they hear her cries of help?
Did they offer a shoulder to rest her tired head?