Rape
I saw her. A body she seemed to be, no more.
The lust for life missing in her eyes, her voice no more than hissing.
Her looks flitting like weak butterflies, their focus ever wavering.
At fourteen she wore a worry, like a woman old
Who had not the strength to cope with life.
Rejected by friends and foes alike, for who’d be with a woman ravaged?
She had sympathy from the press, from activists, from women’s homes;
But nothing to look forward to.
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