West Virginia

At three years old, she emerged from that metal murder-attempt

broken, bloody and bruised;

a shell of the dreamcatcher she was born to become.

At four years old, she sat desolated at the table

blowing out the candles of her broken heart,

begging things back to just-before.

At five, she watched her anchor bend and nearly snap

rocking silently on the bathroom floor,

pasting smiles on crooked teeth and severed bones.

Yet nothing ever dismantled her tiny trust;

the one born, and bred, and bolstered

quite like watching her misplaced hero as he packed "only the essentials".

Nothing stabbed quite as hard, as hearing it's for her, but knowing deeply

nothing in this world has ever been, or will be

for that tiny broken dreamer, abandoned by hope, and safety, and father.