Her words were frightened children, small,
hidden, they couldn’t speak.
And that afternoon, there was no one to call.
The girl in the cupboard heard the floorboards squeak.
The porcelain doll saw with her unblinking eyes,
but the mother’s door was shut.
The prim pink roses on the wallpaper disguised
his breath in her ear, as he whispered ‘slut’.
The trees in the garden peeped through her window
and saw how she curled like a shell.
She buried her head under her pillow
but not his words ‘I’ll hurt you if you tell’.
The sun set crooked across the bed
dark came, although she still lived, her story was dead.
