Dismantled child She just can’t know, where to begin, With the paper and string in her fist. The others, they race, in their childhood pairs, So she leaves, and the fire, turns to spit. Eyes corrupted , hidden, shelled, As she bleeds into upper class worlds, The woman the woman the woman to me, Was I ever that no ones little girl. Her back, carved spitefully, withered and weak, By the rotten decay of a past, Where the tracks, of an trace of a memory flown , See a fractured , inconsolable heart. Should they ever write her name, In the lock kept secret thoughts; I hope the line to follow on, Shall scream of how she once fought. She curled herself tighter, to block out the words, Of the person to finish her off; With no purpose to think, and no reason to speak, Removed the traces of all that once was.