Cold Cuts

Cold cuts are hidden beneath a long sleeve shirt,
Often tossed upon a desk below a cracked mirror.

Crooked on the wall showing stoical expressions
On painted faces, a rag doll, a weird plastic clowwn.

Mute and unaware like her parents still drinking
While drowning their sorrows by the bottle or can.

Borderline issues are apparent to none but most say
She's bad and will never amount to nothing.

So secrets are held while pain seeps from arms,
In the dark on a matress on the floor by the dog.

Sometimes licking tears right off her face of shame
That never ever dares to share her endless hell.

Vivdly she remembers way back in September
When a shadow lurked about and grabbed her hand.

Not a scream was heard but the bottles kept coming
From the fridge in the kitchen as music blared loudly.

The shadow scurried from her room to the basement
Then resumed to party just like her drunken mother.

Time healed no wounds but it was soothed often and daily
By the same type of cans and bottles like they had.

Years later after many trials and tribulations became too much
She took a drive down Ricon road and found treatment.

Hopefully with Gods help and ours, this girl will learn to live again
Without anymore new cold cuts beneath her long sleeve shirt.