Bruise the Bruised

Her presence is haunting the air,
a shadow of pain and pureness  
mangled by torments.
 
I see her behind every little girl’s gaze,
staring at me with agony,
longing for a way out of my life.
 
I see her in the corner of the room
crying in her head, with palms on her face
and no shoulder to lean on.
 
I see her when I close my eyes,
infiltrating my dreams,  
as if they are a playground for the dead.
 
I see her lifeless photos
in the worn-out album,
wishing for me to set her free.
 
I see her at all times,
trembling in my hands
with an anguish  
only she and I can feel.
 
She begs me to stop hurting her,
that she’s in pain,
aching to cocoon herself in my arms.
 
So I wipe her tears,
ask for her forgiveness,  
crawl back into my shell of guilt,
and continue to bruise the bruised.