At an age I do not remember…
He loved me. He cherished me,
I can tell from the photos.
But sometimes photos
do not capture
They do not capture,
the despair on my mothers face,
when she tried to console my shaking body.
They do however capture,
the love on my mothers face
as she looked at he and I.
Her young naive love.
For a man that would later,
break her heart and leave their child.
Photos can capture
the twinkle in a newborn’s eyes,
and the light rose color of her cheeks.
But the photos can not capture…
That newborn’s dull glossy eyes
13 years later.
As she sits on the bathroom floor.
Wondering, “What did I do?”
And the only rose color left is her blood.