Between my finger and my thumb, the squat pen rests;
snug as a gun, but no words will come.
I want to shoot the ink on to the blank page:
to ease the pain built on my inside rage.

The story of my life, one I need to write,
If ever complete, will read like fiction,
The truth though it be told, will never grow old
As it happens in many a family situation.

A sibling you see, quite older than me
Protected by mother, spun cruel webs of lies
All nicely packaged with bows, behind her disguise.
I in the shadows, lost and torn, battered and bruised, spirit worn.

Mothers’ breath grew faint and thin, she whispered “I’m sorry,
for the hurt you endured” Too little, too late now the damage was done.
Between my finger and thumb, the squat pen rests:
Snug as a gun, “I love you,” the words that did not come