It Is a Child

It is a child who mutilates the rose,

A child that strips rose petals from the stem,

Her sticky hands wrapped around all of them.

She sometimes wonders how her anger grows,

The bane of secrets strangling her throat,

Imploding like the bloodstains on her coat.

It is a child refusing to confess,

The cache of thorns piercing her filthy palm.

She knows better than to disturb the calm,

To speak of what is easy to suppress,

Too young to argue in her own defense,

Or trust, that truth will surface or make sense.

It is a child who watches petals drift,

A child who carries more than she should lift.