Infant and innocent

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.