Her face will be horror
when she opens her eyes
on wet sheets, tinted nightdress,
and a sharp stomach ache.
In the dark a thin shadow
will slip out of the bed
with red-painted fingers
and hands between her legs.
As red cuts through her bones
and d
r
o
p
s down trembling thighs,
she will whisper kind sayings,
she will hug her grown self.
The river does not
apologise for its course,
she'll say, neither shall I
blame my sweet-sounding flow.
Long bygone in the corner,
dolls will hear the noise
of her flushing the toilet
in silence, resolved.
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