One day I helped.
Two hours late for work, I pulled my car over—
wanted her to know someone sees what’s
happening…wanted her to know that it’s wrong.

Gave her an asthma pump, my cell phone, a ride
home, a prayer, hug and an honest talk about self-
worth and using her gut to protect her from harms
way.

She was sixteen, out joy riding with a boy she did
not know. Smoking weed and drinking, he held her
overnight at an unknown home. He beat her and
tried to rape her while she lay on the floor, having
an asthma attack… “I told him I was on my period,”
she explained.

One day I didn’t help.
I didn’t say anything, just sat there and watched
that man control a ten y/o boy and thirteen y/o girl.

Their eyes looked sad and empty with his
conversation and presence. He gave her a rose!
One long stem red rose, like she was his woman.
The boy, he didn’t run around or play. He just sat,
still, on the tire swing while that man sat on the
bench with abusive words. I was sick. My head hurt.

I needed to help. I needed safe words. What is
this?

Why is this…why did I stand, still like the tire
swing?

Candace

(c) 2009 All Rights Reserved
(c) 2009 All rights reserved
(c) 2009 All rights reserved