Infant and innocent,
a body learning pain
before learning words.
Bruises bloomed quietly
where lullabies should have lived.
The blow arrived disguised as love,
wrapped in warnings,
in whispers sharp as knives:
be quiet,
behave,
don’t make it worse.
Infant and innocent,
measuring breath,
counting footsteps like prayers,
shrinking into corners
to survive another night.
The hand meant to cradle
became a storm.
The voice meant to soothe
taught the art of silence.
Infant and innocent,
breaking without sound,
asking forgiveness
for wounds never chosen.
No rescue came.
No name was spoken.
And so the child learned
that pain could wear a face,
and tenderness could disappear.
Infant and innocent,
and even now,
fear still echoes in the flesh,
long after the child
has learned how to grow.
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Author:
Lore (
Offline) - Published: January 4th, 2026 15:07
- Category: Sad
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: lunarchloedip, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
Trauma has lasting effects and this poem emphasizes it. Well done
Thank you very much
You are most welcome
Lore, this poem is quiet, precise, and crushing. The repetition of “infant and innocent” becomes a tolling bell, and the ending reminds us that survival doesn’t erase what was learned in fear. This is brave, necessary writing. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you very much
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