Through the eyes of a child alter

Worn and used

Tattered and torn

With holes to see through

And nothing to keep warm

Smelling of yesterday

And with memories dragging

Not much more than a thing

And every part of it sagging

This is not a loved blanket

Cuddled into for years

But he or she is

A receptacle for tears

A child born of abuse

Not wrinkled with love

But damaged from use

Then given a shove

Never once a child valued

Not ever adored

An object for adult gratification

Now forever internally stored.

Xavia, age 13

Author: Carol anne

I am 40 years young. I'm blind and I have dissociative identity disorder, I also have complex PTSD. I blog about my life with these disorders. I live in Ireland.

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