All you knew was, she represented a jar heaped full of humiliation, rejection, and shunning.
She was a mistake, a burden; too bold, too hard, too strong-willed to be loved.
You could have hung her portrait in a shadow box- shy eyes and freckles—barbed wire strung yard by yard around her heart
She was only 7,8,9 summers old.

Why was she running in terror
as the bay door flew upwards
Her name echoing harshly behind her—
Trouble, trouble, trouble, you’re just trouble

You watch from afar as she peels away the flesh
From her face and hands
Unaware that she’s standing naked on
A stage- no orchestra,
nothing to make her courage beautiful
Nothing but a name that loathes her
As she holds it in her hands- loathing it too

Only a name,
Only a scribble on a one cent piece of paper
But for every sharpened javelin it harbors
You forgive her,
For you know she has no strength
left to pluck them out.

O. Montora 

Above photo credit: Birmingham Museums Trust