Proteins Folding Into Molecular Origami

We fold along the traumata
Of childhood, the herky-jerky folds    
Of puppet arms yanked up  
By that inner puppet master  
To soften, ward off the blow.  
   
We turn our faces away  
From the violence  
We do not wish to see  
And the cries we do not wish to hear  
That originate, at least,  
In other throats  
   
And wonder if we’ll ever be loved  
Or held until the tormentors go away  
And wear our fears in fading stripes  
And welts upon the skin  
Until gradually it is a thing  
Receding, a wound so deep,
So constant, the lyric sings itself  
And the broken child to sleep.