An infant that sat in the corner
afraid to coo or sob
grows in a strange way.
Her entire life spent avoiding attention
to escape abuse
deprives her of love
or any feeling of worth.

She scuttles into the room
so worriedly that her plans backfire,
she knocks over tables and trips as she comes,
conspicuously sneaking across the least walked path.
Her hair is evidence of her fear,
always standing on end
just like she walks on tip toe
and keeps her silent tongue tucked inside her frowning mouth.

And when she speaks
her words come tumbling out in a mess of syllables
as though they�d been sitting in her mouth for years
decomposing until they lacked meaning.
She looks at me strangely
because I regard her with such pity,
and when I touch her arm,
the wet of her eyes spills over onto her cheeks
and her explanations come out in jumbled foreign tongues.

I know she goes home
and dreams of the demons that chase her sanity
and as she runs from kitchen knives she whispers to herself
�I�m just confused.�
because I had asked her if she understood.