by Noelle Benoit
A little hand, a tiny fist,
Clenched tight, a silent tryst
With fear that blooms before the dawn,
In a house with love withdrawn.
Five years old, a tangled braid,
A secret sorrow, poorly made.
Mommy’s smile, a fickle thing,
Hides the pain that mornings bring.
A push, a shove, a stinging hand,
A whispered curse she doesn’t understand.
“You’ll never be enough,” the words like poisoned darts,
Piercing deep into her little heart.
She draws a picture, crayons bright,
A family bathed in golden light.
But in the corner, dark and small,
A shadowed figure, looming tall.
Six years old, first day of school,
A chance to break the silent rule.
She tells the teacher, voice so weak,
About the tears that stain her cheek.
The teacher nods, with furrowed brow,
Promises help, and whispers how
Things will get better, day by day,
That someone cares, and hears her say.
CPS arrives, a knock so loud,
Hope flickers in the weary crowd
Of silent witnesses, the toys,
The fractured dreams of girls and boys.
But Mommy smiles, a practiced art,
Weaves a tale that tears apart
The fragile truth, the whispered plea,
“It's just discipline, you see.”
The case is closed, “Inconclusive found,”
The echo of that hollow sound
Resounds within her, sharp and clear,
Confirming all her silent fear.
Seven years old, the bruises hide,
Beneath long sleeves, nowhere to confide.
The playground laughter, far away,
She lives within a darker day.
She dreams of angels, wings so white,
Coming to rescue her at night.
But wakes to darkness, cold and gray,
And knows the angels stay away.
Eight years old, another try,
A note to Santa, reaching high,
“Please help me, Santa, if you can,
My mommy hurts me, like a man.”
The note is found, a crumpled ball,
And Mommy’s anger fills the hall.
A slap, a scream, a bitter tear,
Another year consumed by fear.
Nine years old, she learns to lie,
To mask the pain within her eye.
To say she fell, she tripped, she bumped,
To keep the truth forever stumped.
CPS returns, a different face,
The same routine, the same disgrace.
Mommy’s story, smooth and bright,
Convinces them she’s always right.
The case is closed, “Lack of evidence,”
A final blow, a cruel offense.
Her hope retreats, a wounded bird,
Lost in the silence, unheard, un-word.
Ten, eleven, twelve, the years blur,
A constant ache, a constant stir
Of resentment, deep inside,
A well of tears she cannot hide.
She tries to run, to break away,
But Mommy’s grip will always stay.
A shadow lurking, close behind,
That steals the peace within her mind.
Thirteen, fourteen, silent rage,
Burning bright on life’s dark stage.
She sees the world, a cruel design,
Where no one cares, and no one’s kind.
She cuts her wrists, a crimson tear,
A silent scream, a desperate prayer.
But even then, no helping hand,
Just empty words she can’t withstand.
Fifteen years, the air is thick,
With tension building, sharp and quick.
The day before Thanksgiving Day,
A fight erupts, no other way.
Words like weapons, sharp and cold,
Secrets whispered, truths unfold.
Mommy’s anger, a fiery blaze,
Consuming her in countless ways.
A metal pole, a sudden gleam,
Shatters the remnants of a dream.
The blows descend, a brutal rain,
Washing away the last refrain
Of innocence, of childhood lost,
A devastating, terrible cost.
A neighbor hears, a frantic call,
The sirens wail, throughout the hall.
Police arrive, with flashing light,
To drag her from the endless night.
Mommy’s screaming, filled with lies,
But this time, there’s something in their eyes.
They see the truth, the brutal pain,
The years of suffering, all in vain.
She's taken away, at long last free,
From the prison of her family.
A foster home, a different bed,
A chance to heal, the wounds unsaid.
But scars remain, both deep and wide,
A testament to all she's tried.
The sleepless nights, the haunting fear,
The memories that linger near.
The PTSD, a constant fight,
To find the strength, to see the light.
The therapist’s couch, a sacred space,
To grapple with her own disgrace,
Not hers, but society’s shame,
For failing her, again, again.
The years of reaching, desperate cries,
Ignored by careless, blinded eyes.
If only someone had truly seen,
The broken child she might have been.
If CPS had opened their eyes,
Heard her pleas, and recognized
The pattern of abuse, the hidden pain,
She wouldn’t be shattered, broken again.
The metal pole, the bloody scene,
A tragedy that could have been,
Prevented, lessened, eased with care,
If someone, somewhere, had been there.
She looks ahead, a fragile hope,
To build a life, to learn to cope.
But carries the weight of all the past,
A shadow that forever will last.
She whispers now, a solemn plea,
For others trapped, like she used to be.
For children suffering, day by day,
Whose voices fade, and slowly decay.
About Noelle Benoit
Noelle Benoit is the proud niece of Josie Bessett. A junior at Manning High School, Noelle is a member of the Air Force JROTC program, where she holds the rank of Major. She also is a member of the varsity soccer team and the National Technical Honor Society. Her love for writing stems from her passion for words and has become an outlet for thoughts left unsaid. Noelle is considering studying culinary arts at the Culinary Institute of America or aerospace engineering at West Virginia University. She would like to thank her English teacher, Mrs. Deizmond Kelly-Gaskins, for inspiring her to write again and making poetry a new method of expression.