I'd felt along the streams of scars upon her arms

And whispered, asking her, is she sure they are stretch marks

Only then did I realise children are just as brave as adults

She cried into my shoulder and told me she'd protect me from his harm

But it wasn't him I was afraid of anymore, and she knew it.

She only sobbed when I copied her.

My blood felt safe as it dripped from the butcher's knife

But she only wiped them away with tissue and made me promise

That I wasn't going to do it again. I never saw that knife either.

It didn't stop me when he returned from trying to hack away

My wrist, my arm, my life. She knew I bled but couldn't move

From out of bed and instead let me go to school broken.

She held me close and told me the story of a man she knew

Though she was sorry that he died, she knew he could still be alive

If not for the misuse of his emotions in manipulation by another woman,

She told me how my father cried when he was told his uncle died

And I could not see such a man feel any form of pain,

But that's just the effect of suicide