For some people,
Childhood bruises like the scabs on their knees.
Happy memories of broken bones,
From falling out of trees.
Laughter, races and falling over.
Your skin black and blue from the playground.
The thrill of winning the race,
That you wanted so badly to win.
It was easy to pretend,
At ages six and eight,
That her bruises were from her friends.
Not from home.
It was only later,
When this became a struggle,
She had to find new excuses.
For why at twelve and thirteen-
she was still black and blue.
“I’m clumsy,” She told her friends,
“Always falling over.”
The bigger worry was to come,
From the internal bruising in her heart.
From years and years of words,
That cut her deeper than a knife.
Those types of wounds that will never heal,
Even when she tries to forget.
Even when she tries to make her childhood something that it wasn’t.
It won’t matter in ten years,
Praying that her peers forget what they saw,
Praying that she forgets what she has seen.
They always do,
But she is still yet to.