She’s sitting in the dark,
facing the corner,
staring at the wall.
I quietly open the door.
She ignores my voice,
but jumps up when she hears my footsteps draw closer,
and backs up to the wall.
My heart skips a beat when I see her face.
Staying in this room everyday has certainly taken it’s toll.
Dark circles ring her eyes,
there is a fresh cut across her nose,
and a large bruise on her jawbone.
Her cheeks are hollow,
her skin pale.
I take a step closer and she tenses,
her eyes darting around the room,
looking for an escape,
her eyes alert and terrified.
She screams at me to leave,
and I wince at her voice,
sharp and ragged from lack of use.
Though she tries to hide it,
she radiates fear;
fear of being hurt,
of being forgotten.
Although she is only a child,
she has seen and experienced more,
much more, than others older than her.
One could only wish that time would heal the wounds,
the scars and bruises on her heart.