She has a violent silent rage for her age.
They say it's because of the life she lived before coming to our home.
She damages the chrome.
Sneakily moving about,
It wasn't me!
I didn't do it.
Then later she admits, okay, I did do it.
But you made me.
By not letting me, be me.
She ignites the fuse.
She's always cranky.
Blaming everyone else for her own actions,
She's at war with herself.
Doesn't understand right from wrong,
She has no sense of belonging.
She still longs.
For the life she was recused from.
She looks at her rescue, more as an intrusion.
She lives in confusion.
Not knowing the difference between good and evil.
Strapped in the deep dark chains from the devil,
She has no respect for person or property.
Her only goal is to get even.
Giving it all and equal seven.
Every day of the week, she makes the strong weak.
With lies and deception,
She's the receptionist to suffering's reception.
There's no emotional connection.
With her present life,
Her food is stale hard bitter bread made from strife.
As she carves her initials into the kitchen counter,
Wanting everyone to pay for her new name,
Sorry is the new game.
Sorry you brought her into your life.
Sorry she takes and steals your most meaningful possessions.
My things become her obsessions.
This is the impression carved with her knife.
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