The innocence of a child,
the innocence of her name,
was taken away
when brother made raping a game.

Daddy didn't call her kiddo,
mommy didn't call her Riah,
the child's words were not "I love you"
they were "my name is not whore, it's Mariah.

A smile faded away
into the depths of her pain,
tortured and beaten
as she played her brothers game.

She couldn't go to the park,
she couldn't go down a slide.
It's because to her brother,
she was something to hide.

She was a broken child,
bloodied and bruised.
If she went to a park,
people would know she was abused.

She would play with her dolly,
the one missing an arm,
making sure brother
would give it no harm.

She would play pretend,
where she had a life,
where brother held a Frisbee,
and not a knife.

She would put her hair in pigtails,
pretend she was going to school,
pretend her brother loved her,
that he wasn't cruel.

She would smile in the cracked mirror,
tell herself "you look nice today"
even though that's something
brother would tell her not to say.

"You can't look nice,
you're brothers little whore."
She would cry a little
when he shut the door.

The innocence of a child,
taken away at four,
never able to see the world,
always shut behind a door.

The innocence of a child,
the innocence of her name,
was taken away
when brother made raping a game.