read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

August 19, 2008
I found my baby picture of when I was two.

I love that little girl,
still innocent
as to all that had already been stolen away
from her.

I love her resilience, and her stubborn spirit.

It would be years,
both long and short,
before even that would be beaten out of her.

Leaving behind the broken adult
fighting viciously to vindicate her;
to validate her existence,
even as there is no justifiable reason
why this need be.

Her very name speaks to her nobility;
she is properly called a queen.

Why do I find this so impossible to believe?