for a child

Despite the rumors,
There is nothing romantic
Victorian, post-Elizabethan
about child abuse.

Nothing beautiful
about smashing a psyche
into shards
she picks it up,
bleeding fingers
matching pieces
she hopes to divine
a purpose for her
already wasted life.

There is no martyr
like a dead child.
Nothing more horrific
glancing at her wide eyes
staring, dumbfounded
still innocent in death
she would still reach out bruised arms
in the ghost of a hope
her abuser might yet hug her

all the potential in the world
is nothing
if our children cannot live
to realize it.