I know of a girl who used to hide in cupboards
When her da was on the rampage.
And whose brother often tried to rape her
Though she never told.
(Much as she hated him she still loved him enough
Not to cause any more broken bones on her account.)
I know of a girl whom, when taken into care
Needed to make coffee in the wee small hours
And wasn't allowed.
But rocking, under the bed, she spooned the invisible granuales anyway.
A ritual needed to sober up the monster in her nightmare
And to calm the panic of this stark room unknown.
I know of this girl not me.