A tale woven with bitter regret and sorrow drew me in to respect such strength.

I hear your fair skin had once been dark and bruised; your childhood innocence had been robbed in the night.

Then running when you could, on legs so young and tired, you thought you could escape.

But it was a trap.

You fled into the arms of the enemy.

Being beaten down by fat hands and jagged words, the freedom you thought would save you has been stolen once more.

Here, you say, a line must be drawn, no matter how quivering the fingers that hold the pen.

So you gathered up your courage in a pink suitcase and started once again.   Alone.     With nothing.

I once admired this bravery. I wept at your brawn.

And still I weep all the same as I wonder where you shifted from help to hurt.

When did those feet that tripped over one another scurrying away learn to stomp wherever they please? When did those hands that were flung up to block and protect begin to slam into everything they touch? Where did it all change to hateful glares and demotivational slander?

And a voice that once shook with tears now breaks in rage.

I yearn to go back and block your Path to Destruction.

I wish I could take my own small, shaking hands and catch those 'I don't love you's before they can make it to the ears of those you told me meant everything to you.

And still, I watch you, an embodiment of wrath, cry "Abuse! I'm being abused!"

So when, if at all, did this soul change for the worst? 

             Or was it all a lie?