I used to think she was perfection.

Always there to protect me from him, always there to comfort me afterwards, always there to stick up for us.

Always there.

There when he yelled.

There when he threatened.

There when he hit.


It wasn't until I was older that I understood, though I always thought I did.

She wasn't a little girl.

She wasn't scared.

She didn't need someone's permission.

And she certainly wasn't perfect.

Though lying there in the casket he put her in-

maybe it was the way the light hit her-

but she really did seem perfect.