she clung to the back seat of the jet black car, fingers embedded in the vinyl headrest, driving away from home, and innocence, and the only familiarity she’d ever truly known, answered questions she couldn’t comprehend, and watched, sadly as a monstrous sky swallowed childhood in one disgusting gulp time passed and tragedies wandered faded blacktop streets, pebbles cut, leaving scars to settle in the bottom of her feet; the place where all the organs settle – a synopsis to the soul – she remembers little, and yet hears the secrets whispered in the corridors of the past, and cannot staunch the aching, for all she’d never know they never speak of history, or of pains buried so deeply and fingers that sometimes bleed and the woman looks out and sees the things worth changing and the woman looks in and sees the child and comes to know her pain