The Little Girl With Pigtails

She’s the little girl with pigtails, who sits quietly at her desk. Whose eyes lift to meet no one, whose clothing is always a mess. He’s the little boy on the playground, whose strays alone without a friend. Whose countless cuts and bruises, are too deep for those to mend. She’s the little girl in the lunch line, who stares at classmates having fun. Her mouth never forms a smile, her long sleeves cover what’s been done. He’s the little boy, who lashes out in anger, as his classmates stop and stare, in wonder at the skeptical, of a little boy who seldom had a word to share. She’s the little girl who recites excuses, for every injury her tiny body may bear. A rehearsed story told so perfectly, no one notices the blankness within her stare. He’s the little boy who startles so easily, and jumps at the loudest sound. A little boy covered in shades of blue, inflicted by an abuser his fate is bound. She’s the little girl with pigtails, she sits alone, without a friend to tend, a black tinted heart of abusiveness, hidden injuries never to mend. They were the little boy and girl in the classroom, who sat quietly alone, concealing the crime, of living a life-time at the hands of an abuser, who raised their hands of abuse one last time.