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No phone calls allowed.
No one can call in.
No one can call out.
Will he kill me tonight?
Why doesn't she care?
My ribs are sore, where he broke them.
I hurt.
I wish I had died when I swallowed those pills.
Will this never end?
They read my mail.
I can't write out either.
No one comes to visit, 'cause they're scared of my dad.
I don't blame them.
They don't want to end up in the hospital like I have so many times.
I'd call a friend on the phone, but the phones are locked-out.
Only they can use them.
Only they know the access code.
I'd chat with someone on the internet, but they took away my access.
I'd go somewhere to be alone with my thoughts,
but I can't get out of the house unnoticed, and he would punish me.
I'd run away, but there is only one way into this neighborhood,
and only one way out.
And if the cops find me, they'll just send me back.
I can't think straight. I'm scared of my own shadow.
I'm like a cat thats been kicked too many times...
the slightest thing makes me cringe and cower.
They stole my mind.
They stole my heart.
They stole my soul.
They stole my childhood.
I hurt.
Doesn't anybody Love me?
Will this never end?
I hope that stuff I just drank is as poisonous as it's supposed to be.
I feel sick.
i cnat rite any mosdfhbrk467bf

Robbie Hatley, Saturday September 5, 1998

I wrote this poem while I was thinking about the travesty of child abuse in this country, and how the authorites often turn a blind eye to it. I wondered what if would feel like from the point of view of the abused child. So I put my mind into the life of an abused, suicidal child. And this poem was the result. It's pretty morbid. One friend of mine said, "It's a bit 'gothic', don't you think?" That may be true... but I fear it is also all-too-realistic. Too many children in this country are in exactly this situation.

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