​Tripped over a pebble,
A bruise on my knee
Of wounds I knew little,
But the bruise was really bad, from what I could see.
Limping on the sidewalk,
Balancing on one foot,
I finally reached my house,
My hair and body filled with soot.

“Mommy!” I called out,
Falling on one knee.
My mom appeared in the threshold
With many clothes fold.

“Stay here, Lui!” she cried out
And went in back again,
Without sparing a glance as the pain I fought.

She came back again, with a small green container.
“A little bit of Boroline would work,”
She said and applied a layer.

“I don’t think it’s okay,” I admitted, my skin burning.
She lectured:
“Come on, Lui. Back in our days, we would not even flinch while drowning!”

She left me out the house,
Not even signing me to enter.

I thought, she cares so much about louse.
But wouldn’t even wash the wound with tender.

Every wound, every cut, every bruise
Is curable from Boroline,
That’s what she lives by.

But only if she had put a handful of water on my knee,
I wouldn’t have said her, on that day, a silent last goodbye.


















Hi, this was my first poem on WritCo! Thanks for reading! And don’t worry, I don’t usually write dark things, this poem idea randomly popped in my mind a few days ago!
(Ignore these tags, please):
#death #abuse #abusive
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