The Play Ground

My head is dully throbbing,

red streaks flowing

out of jagged cracks.

I am nowhere when

they carry me.

Tiny girls lift a damaged body.

The force with which you hit me

The nurse insists I am fine,

sends me on my way.

Slowly come the sharp stings,

disjointed, inarticulate muddled vision.

I cannot hold back my tears.

My first time struck

by a boy.

The force with which you hit me

Reverberates throughout my life.

You leave me a myriad of scars,

a permanent reminder

for the chasm in my memory.

I walk, picturing my mother

her arms cloaked around me,

her lips against my temple.

walking blindly

through the snow,

alone

Tara Chisenhall is a creative writing student at Austin Peay State University. She has worked as an intern for the Zone 3 Literary Journal. She has questions about life and is looking for answers. This would be her first published work. Twitter @BethChisenhall