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Angela
That pale little hand being led to the bedroom
 Those corduroy jeans being tossed to the floor
 That innocent smile as he leans in to kiss her
 The green of her eyes as they lay down for more
 The very same eyes I caught reading Harry Potter past their bedtime. 
 
 Those bouncy red curls flattened against the bedspread
 Twisted and tangled and coated in gel
 Those delicate hands exploring his body
 Those tiny girl’s hands, that I knew so well
 The very same that shook me awake year after year on Christmas morning.
 
 What happened to the little princess?
 The cross country runner?
 The sweet baby girl?
 
 The science fair champion:
 Arching her back and closing her eyes
 gasping and panting and
 pulling him closer 
 To the body I held in the hospital.
 
 The clumsy ballerina:
 Being rocked back and forth
 Going limp with pleasure
 Sighing satisfied
 With the voice that asked me for a later bed time. 
 
 My rosy cheeked child who loved musical theatre
 and wore purple sweaters
 is gone.
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This article has 164 comments.
Honestly, I think the mother probably feels worse that she was hiding the whole thing from her. That she was lying.
But anyways, that was very well written. 4.5/5
5 stars.
You really related. I loved it.
 
Note: The poem is entitled 'Angela' after the woman who's face inspired me. This name has been changed to protect her identity, and that of my friend.