She cried out for attention—was it really a game?

Or was it the only way they’d remember her name?

Her voice, an echo, lost in the night,

Drowned by indifference, swallowed by spite.

Her grandfather’s eyes, heavy with shame,

Saw only a liar—never the pain.

She was a burden, a whispered regret,

A shadow of sorrow he’d rather forget.

Lonely, broken, battered, and bruised,

A soul left to wither—discarded, misused.

Comparable to fruit left to decay,

Softened by wounds, wasting away.

But if they’d listened—if they had seen,

Would she still be trapped in a silent scream?

Or was she always meant to fade,

A ghost in the home where she was made?