new york in the summer

for once there was a child,

bleak, at that, with doubt and fear,

but an innocuous sense of morality.

for once there was the parent, the lover:

 

whose touch could cure all,

but whose cure came at a cost.

for once there was something called innocence,

innocence lost,

innocence twisted,

 

because of the little things they say,

the little things they have done to you.

"i'm sorry. i'm so sorry."

words mean nothing

 

when they are said into an empty room,

with grey, calloused walls,

and a child,

withdrawing, into its own tomb.