Under the gossamer sheet she lays, a child, precious innocents.
She is perfection. Beauty sleeps shrouded in love and hope.
She belongs to this world, included not exposed.
Trust and naivety her false guardian.
It is tainted love that lays down the heavy blanket of guilt.
The child gladly accepts and hides beneath.
The world feels cold.
At first her covers do not weigh so much that she can not slip out from their grasp.
Free to dance, sing, and play, to love.
Irritated by the distraction mother neatly smoothes and ensure they are well tucked in; the blankets of unimportance, insignificance, unwanted.
She is only a child. Not that she can be seen, once gossamer followed the contours of her limbs, now distain, disappointment, fear, anger, shame, humiliation, hurt, pain and the failing of others are added to guilt.
Suppressed, stifled, but safely hidden from the outside. She lives on inconspicuously. Take a look my friend, but be very careful. She is fearfully of you. Be not judgemental for that is a weighty blanket to bear.
You may be able to peel back the layers with honest, kindness, affection and love. A few have succeeded to coax her out from beneath. But do not forget the layers are her protection and when she grows tired of soft emotions she will need them again. For her really comfort and needs lay embedded in those layers.
They did not mean to hurt her, or perhaps they did. They did not stop to ask why. To delve through the layers that masks their child. My damage is yours my darling their only insight.
When you speak to a child on every word hangs a blanket.
I implore you all before handing out blankets, look under your own, wake your child and ask their advice.
Converse with the wisdom of your child within.
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