When Shelly finally did go back,
her childhood home was falling down.
The memories came flooding back,
of growing up in this small town.
She opened up the unlocked door,
her room, upstairs and to the right.
White filthy tattered curtains hung,
like ghostly figures in the night.
A broken doll she used to love,
was in a corner, legs askew.
Hot tears sprung up in Shelly's eyes,
recalling all that she went through.
Her mother was a gentle soul,
who strived to cook and keep things clean.
Her father often used his belt,
he drank each day; he turned so mean.
She slowly walked from room to room,
with thoughts of how her mother died.
The stain remains upon the rug,
so many tears since then she's cried.
The hate she feels, eats her inside,
and closure now is what she needs.
The horror that she witnessed stays,
and deep inside her soul still bleeds.
She came to say goodbye, let go,
release her pain into these walls.
Her broken doll clutched to her chest,
a better future to her calls.
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