pitter patter, the clink of the teacups went

as he fed me weeks day old bread

in the windowless basement where i was kept.

children's stories he read

in the almost concerning pink bed.

Tossing

Turning

Trembling

hoping for the day i get out

hoping for the day i feel again.

the great wooden door flung open

i could not see, not a thing.

the streak of light glimmered

directly on my bare face

and lingered on the scars against my pale skin.

it had been years

years of yearning to be free

years since i felt warmth

since i felt anything

since i had been trapped.

a grown woman i was

And I felt I was a newborn baby

completely and utterly

helpless.

years of the dark

years of

Tossing, Turning and Trembling

i had finally felt as if i was alive

as if i wasn't bound to chains

as if i wasn't in a peculiar basement fit for a five year old

as if i was simply free

but i was not.

and the door simply shut.

and yet again it was static

as it was.