Like dark mud flowing down a clear river
her soul courses through my veins.
There is no purity- only the sins
of the life she left behind- just the
visibility of the deep scars left by others.
But I helped.
I helped her get out of trouble.
I helped her break free from the life she used to live.
I helped.
She was grateful
and still is grateful
of the new life: clean from dishonest people,
clean from corruption and especially clean
from crooked men that want to hurt her.
Her writing brings warmth into life.
She has so much talent, yet no one but
I can recognize it. Why is that?
Why is it that we only see what we
want to see and are blinded from the fact
that our society undermines the values that
we try to instill on our youth by teaching us
to take these pills,
do these drugs;
to hang with this crowd.

So as I sit here I can feel her, I can
feel her past life, the sins that she committed, the thousand
sins that were committed toward her. And I am
sorry. Sorry that I could not have been
there earlier. Sorry that I could not
stop the violence. Sorry that I could
not stop everything. Sorry that I could not come
to help her. Sorry that I am not like the brave Telemachus.
Sorry that I could not
love her.