I was 18 when they married me,
16 when I died:
15 and my hopes were full,
14, eyes still wide –
And all the time that went before
Was childhood in its dreams:
Their hands were light, they guided me,
Their truths were what they seemed.
Yet though the hours are filled up now
I sometimes see a light,
And kneeling down before my God
I puzzle on their ‘right’:
Their expectations moulded me,
I couldn’t fight their lies –
I struggled for a moment
Then died without surprise.
So what hope is there for my child,
Born to their bounded hell?
Though my eyes are opened now,
Will hers stay closed as well?
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