Prose Poem

The Silent Child

The silent child sits. Quiet. Obedient. She does not deserve the monster’s hits.

Yes, she is perceived as strong. As strong as the damaged may look. The happy face, the blank façade. Her emotions a closed black book. Day by bright day she fades through life, living in fear ‘til the next scary night.

Her friends do not notice, the clear tears in her eyes; and to the teachers she speaks great lies, but when the child is alone she cries and cries.

She does not cower from the monster, no, a fighter that is she. Weakness and suffering, is something the beast must not see. But without a reaction the monster pounds, breaks things, beats, and screams. Outside that sage room though, no one will see, the pain that is caused by the drugged demonic being.

The beast is a magician! A master of disguise! On the outside the beauty escapes no eyes. Happy and bubbling, a lovable woman. No one can see the pain that she is causing.

Lies the monster spreads, like hot wildfire it comes; so blatantly, so easily, spread to everyone. From every angle the monster tears apart the girls life. The child it is ruining, on the outside and in. But no one notices, no one cares, she is alone without a friend.

She tries, oh the child tries to escape and run away, but she will soon be back before the light of the next day. When she runs she sits in the cold, the silent white cold, lonely, and scared, no comfort at all. She screams into the night, none hear but the wind. She curses the sky for bring the beast in; in her room, in her house, every night the monster comes. To punish and terrorize, to go crazy, for fun. The child tries to defeat it; to destroy the monsters disgusting supply. But no matter what she does, the monster finds how to survive. She gets it somehow, the supply is coming! No matter how many times the child dumps, breaks, pours, and destroys it.

The poor girl is out of ideas; can it only be the way? To take her own life, would that ease the pain? She attempts the task, each day, after school; why would she want to live in a world so cruel?

Still, the child sits, with heavy blade and bible, hoping to cut the pain out from inside her. She asks her God, begs her God; does he hear her cry? When she sits the corner screaming “Why, why, why?” She gets no comfort, no help from pain; so she grins at the monster, and bears it the same.

In the darkness she sits, waiting for the monsters three a.m. fit. It comes and she takes it, never moving an inch. Quiet. Silent.