Here is a poem from my 14 year old grand daughter. Her father is a misogynist rat bastard who abused her. I didn't know it until he was long gone.
The world is too close in us Late and early Caressing and dying we lay waste our powers Little we see in grief that is ours We have given our love away, A bleeding death. This demise that lays vulnerable to the lies This hound that wails into the night, And, is collected now, like bleeding flowers, For this, for everything, we are discomforted, It does not touch us, But, still, we ask, "How could you do this to me"? I'd rather be a child, wrapped in a torn shirt So that I, running on this broken land, Could have glimpses to make me less forlorn And, see myself rising from the sea And hear the Gods blare comfort from a horn.