We paint memories
On the canvases of our minds
With the stain of tears
Shed softly in silent cries.
Little girl atop a cabinet so white,
While tasting cookie dough
With tiny fingers, craving first bite.
Innocent, trusting, full of chatter,
Dancing gleefully, feet pitter-patter.
Grown now, looking back,
At lost years given to a heart so black.
Standing on the edge, on the brink,
Of self-made disaster,
Hot lights of truth glaring, spinning faster.
Emptying her mind, not daring to think.
Auto-survival, long-honed skills,
Time for cutting ties with her ills.
Her scars under fire,
With random words from liars.
Can she truly be free
From pain, from dark reality?
~CWylde ⓒ 2015
