11-16-2018, 07:58 PM
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Fairy tales were nothing more than distant memories to a child who bared witness of slaughter to old lives and quiet village once called home. Sickly sweet stench of blood with the haunting screams of agony and begs of mercy followed by gurgling death cries never ceased to plague thoughts day and night. Body racking chills overcome small figure at the faint whiff of The Beast and comes to wish of living no more to stop the pain– the fear. A night of murder burned into memory and scarred from the traumatic experience, having a question of why, yet unable to voice an utterance of query. ( A distant wish but too fearful to even dare give question if the chance had arisen. ) So, the days were spent living with the man who smelled of fire and pine, words of clarity and teasing comments, who graciously took care of the little girl. Taught the art of poetry despite being mute, though never deterred racing thoughts to try and click together to make sense.
It had become a way of internal expression.
An activity come to love each day the man returned to their small hut, delighted in participating in a favorite hobby of one too kind for hardened criminals and toxic tongues polluting the air. Overjoyed the day the man gave a wonderful present: a long cream scarf. A bit larger than anticipated by him but a gift she loved wholeheartedly. Another surprise he had given her the same time; not tangible yet equally as great.
[align=center]( “Mm. . . Little. Do you like that?” )
Fairy tales were nothing more than distant memories to a child who bared witness of slaughter to old lives and quiet village once called home. Sickly sweet stench of blood with the haunting screams of agony and begs of mercy followed by gurgling death cries never ceased to plague thoughts day and night. Body racking chills overcome small figure at the faint whiff of The Beast and comes to wish of living no more to stop the pain– the fear. A night of murder burned into memory and scarred from the traumatic experience, having a question of why, yet unable to voice an utterance of query. ( A distant wish but too fearful to even dare give question if the chance had arisen. ) So, the days were spent living with the man who smelled of fire and pine, words of clarity and teasing comments, who graciously took care of the little girl. Taught the art of poetry despite being mute, though never deterred racing thoughts to try and click together to make sense.
It had become a way of internal expression.
An activity come to love each day the man returned to their small hut, delighted in participating in a favorite hobby of one too kind for hardened criminals and toxic tongues polluting the air. Overjoyed the day the man gave a wonderful present: a long cream scarf. A bit larger than anticipated by him but a gift she loved wholeheartedly. Another surprise he had given her the same time; not tangible yet equally as great.
[align=center]( “Mm. . . Little. Do you like that?” )
A name. No longer a nameless soul among many. No longer a nobody. She became a somebody that day.
( “Excellent! You’re Little, now. Little Blackwood. My sweet daughter, Little Blackwood.” )
No words could express the sheer joy nor the amount of tears could begin the thankfulness towards the man. While the hauntings of the fateful day still stick, it hurt a little less, felt less lonely, gave birth to a hope of pushing past it all.
Little Blackwood
Is I
Little Blackwood
Is Me
Little Blackwood
Is what I hope
To EVER BE
Is I
Little Blackwood
Is Me
Little Blackwood
Is what I hope
To EVER BE
◜❛ ✭ ❜◞ -— BUT IT'S THE LAST TIME I BLOODIED MY HANDS
i'm living in vain, i never promised you a damn thing