People ask what horrible things he had done,
So that his child,
No longer wanted to play in the sun.

At first,
He answered that the child,
Just didn't want to play outside.

A little later in life,
He answered that the child fell down,
To account for the purple dotting their skin.

Everyone accepted the lie,
And pretend there were no other reasons why?
Why these things happened to the child.

More and more,
The symptoms showed up,
But hey, the child is sick,

That's why they aren't at school.

Not healing from battle wounds,
Not from a father's hand pressing a little too hard,
Not from the words and the places he touched.

Poor child,
You'll be told you have stories to tell,
But you shouldn't tell that one.

The one, that if true,
Will take years to heal,
It lies deeper than the skin.

Poor baby,
You'll be told you're clumsy,
But you'll grow out of it.

That might be partially true,
Although children at play,
Don't bruise the same way.

Dear teen,
You'll be told to grow some balls,
And to quite being a wimp.

People don't see what should be clear as day,
Keep fighting they say.

Keep fighting.
I'm sorry.