The Broken Child

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There I sat perched upon that fine log.
Waiting with lustful eyes directed at the attention-saturated children.
They knew not of my sorrows, my longing, my hunger.
They stood there watching me with eyes that voiced the words of my father.
“You’re not good enough,” they pleaded.
“You’re not worthy to me,” they barked.
I fell victim to these dark and beady eyes.
Like poison-tainted tips of an ever unseen blade, they did jab.
I wanted to do nothing more than cry and repent before these eyes.
I wanted to be more special, more unique, more desirable.
My words fell short, however;
And time was theirs once more.
The fire crackled with the taste of new prey as my father threw the helpless bark over the quickly dimming ember.
I could do nothing more than restrain my tears that ached to cascade over my forever-torn heart.
But my hands had a mind of their own.
What felt like infinity marked mere seconds in the Book of Time.
I shrieked and I clamored as my hands caressed the mounting flames.
No one told me that fire could burn you.
My father just watched as I groped the floor seeking comfort that was forbidden to me.
His eyes judged me like that of a nobleman looking down upon a lice-infested beggar.
Disgust is what I have come to label it.
It’s disgust that made me unlovable to all who see me through pity-lacking eyes.
It’s disgust that defines me in this life until my fateful end.

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