Little Christian

Such a blessing, is the gift to create
Ruin.
I could watch you for hours, weaving
lies into the fibres of truth;
Deft hands spinning thread like a
Spider,
That carefully trim and cut
Short the lives of seven souls, damned to hell by your
Small hands.

I hear you pray most nights, soft voice
That spills poison into listening ears,
And whispers gratitude from a mouth
Blackened with the coal that chokes you in the night, black like
Your heart which still thumps when the candles burn out.

You ask for forgiveness; seek absolution for a cracked glass,
not for the burns and bruises; pinches you blamed on another.
I’m sorry your mother was too blind to see
What her wretched daughter was doing to herself,
When she sought love
In other’s punishment;
Invoked the Lord’s judgement
Over a mouthful of milk.

You’ll do well I’m sure, so talented and so young.
But so was I.
I can’t watch you grow anymore, oh how I wish
I had thrown you across that room.
And let my prayers ring true as I utter
May the devil harl your soul through hell.