Don’t tell me,

That he liked me,

When I came home,

From school,

With bruises on my skin,

In the shape of the knuckles,

That “falling down the stairs,”

Could never,

Have made.

And don’t tell me,

He was trying to protect me,

When he locked me in,

The supply closet.

I don’t want to hear,

You defend him,

And make up more excuses,

Of why he did,

Horrible things,

Because the truth is:

He was a bully,

And I can only hope,

To forgive him,

For being that,

Instead of a friend,

When I needed one.



Posted in: WHY

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