A child was thrown into a thorn bush,
with a bottle of whisky that poured over her incisions.

A perfect aim to humiliate and kill her child.
To open up a wound that 16 years later remains unfastened.

Reduced to ashes, burnt to the bone.
To seize the child, the girl, the woman.

For dreams to become reality,
and surrealism to become normality.

A fist would take to her face,
and nobody would be any the wiser.

04/18/2003

Posted on 04/17/2003
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