Sir

This perfect little girl
Lived in a nightmare, a sin.

Bloody wrists
Covered by bracelets.

To be seen only
As she sits
Surrounded by
The blood and tears

Falling around her,
Blending, as if matched.

She calls him sir,
Her torturer.

He comes at night,
Our of nowhere,
Giving her a fright.

She has nowhere to run,
Only this little escape.

Running away, hiding
Behind the razor blade.