Sticks And Stones (Poetry)

What cruelty could there be? —
the child well-dressed and clean
seemed outwardly well-fed
but reticent as though a shyness held
her thoughts apart and stopped
them being said.

No bruises, cuts or scars
no sign of battering or injury
to make the matter plain
yet something in her eyes
said suffering
hidden deep without a voice or name.

Too quiet and so reserved as if afraid
she’d give away too much
if she spoke more
her face a solemn page
the writing small
the storyline unsure.

She never drew attention — acted up —
a mouse that made most other
mice seem bold.
The child inside was trapped —
a creature caged
sitting docile — all her freedoms sold

except for one — the patient rebel stored
resentment — filed harsh memories away
waiting — watching for a chance
to escape the tyranny of words
that crushed her — kept her anxious and curtailed
potential — killed each mild defiant stance.

Anger nurtured — strengthened with the years
she bided time and learnt a host
of bitter truths —
such cruel wounds rarely heal within
but fester there — the verbal damage done
insidious — unseen as child abuse.