#159 (Broken.)

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A malformed picture,
Hidden within the glass of the mirror,
Of the girl she once loved.
Her bones become prominent,
As the days drag forward,
And her stomach acid returns backwards.

A malnourished body,
Hidden with large shirts,
Baggy jeans,
And the faked smile,
We all know too well.
All too different,
From the boy,
He once was.

Her bones press against her frail skin,
And she struggles to hide the bruises,
That her seemingly loving father gave her.
It only got worse as his little girl,
That he was supposed to love,
Stopped eating,
Because his wife never stopped drinking,
Or smoking,
To notice how her husband hurts their baby girl.

His fingers dig into the skin,
Of the people he once befriended,
Because they chose,
That he wasn't good enough,
And covered his once strong mind,
In scars,
Because he didn't act masculine enough,
Because they needed someone to taunt.

She wants to look perfect,
Yet her methods slowly kill her.
But that's not all,
She wants control.
Her daddy beats her.
Her mummy never comes home,
And if she does,
Daddy hits her too,
Because she has the marks,
And the sick smell of other people,
Draped over her body.
Daddy is cruel,
And mummy is a deadbeat,
So their girl needs some kind of buffer,
To have something holding her up,
Even though that crutch is weak,
And was broken from the start.

His father died too soon,
His mother soon joined,
In the hope of seeing him again,
Leaving their little boy to fend for himself,
At only seven years old.
He was taken away,
The little boy,
Hurt, beaten, assaulted,
By people who never had rights to him.
Once he was free of that,
His friends traumatised him further.
So the little boy wants control,
The little boy wants to be free,
And his methods will soon be his suicide.

If the two paths,
Of these broken children,
Were to cross one day,
Would they be saved?
Or would they fail to survive,
For one more night?

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