Writing

Hers

She curled up on the bed that wasn’t hers,

under the blankets that weren’t hers,

in clothes that weren’t hers.

The room was full of toys she never had,

with the white walls she never had.

The hallway lead to the rooms in a house that wasn’t her home,

with parents that weren’t hers.

She missed her bed,

her blankets,

her clothes,

even if they were too small.

She missed her toys and walls,

even though they were dirty and old.

She missed her home,

her parents,

but they were never there.

They never put her in her bed,

covered her with her blankets,

or gave her her clothes.

They never gave her toys,

and never cleaned her walls.

They weren’t ever home,

but they were still her parents.

The mean people took away the bed,

the blankets,

the clothes.

Along with the toys and the walls.

“It’ll be better away from here,” the mean people said.

She didn’t think so.

She wanted it back.

She wanted to go back.

To what was hers.

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