The Lost Child

By Anita Mercado

Childhood suffering can inflict a tidal wave of destruction and trauma on those who have endured its fury, and many turn on themselves to fill their void. Loving your inner child enables the innermost turmoil to gradually dissipate and promote recovery. Through meditation and spiritual awakening, this little girl found herself on a journey of self-exploration. Do not abandon the lost child within you; mend their broken hearts and let their words be spoken. This assortment shares the voice of one little girls pain and rediscovery. Read her misery, hear her cries, and watch as this little girl, who was once lost, is finally found.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493111152

Book preview

Strong Binding

I often think about being published

Having my words in twelve-point Times New Roman font

Soft, wispy numbered pages

Sealed with strong binding

Paperback cover

Being discussed by quirky artists with expansive minds

Read on dirty subways

Long 8-hour car rides

Rainy evenings

Then I think

Wait

Will I succeed?

With my destructive recollections

My grimy language

Lack of punctuation

Will I be mocked or admired?

Some may feel that my words

My story

Is solely a promotion of adolescent destruction

I understand that my words seem raw

Possibly horrendous in nature

But there is no editing reality

Reality of depression

Abuse

Rape

Self-hatred

Inner pain

You cannot edit my truthfulness

For some are sickened

Others grateful

Appreciative that someone is unveiling the truth

Capturing only a fraction of that pain and putting words to those recycled thoughts

I want you to read something that expresses the intensity of these emotions

The beauty of change

To reach this point, I had to abandon old ways

What I hope to achieve

Is having someone know

Your pain is understood

In cruel detail

And you shall overcome

Storybook Ending

She said it was nothing but a nightgown,

Lace trim,

Providing just enough silk to cover her young,

Frail body.

Her lips,

Her innocence,

All taken from her.

She cuts to watch her only pride,

Her life,

Drip down to the very bed that rid her of her childlike shell.

His love,

His touch,

His fatherly-like presence

Gave her hope

That the tales in her library of dreams would one day hold true.

The storybook endings with bound edges,

Colorful illustrations,

The medium printed letters,

Combined to tell a story of the girl she hoped to be,

The life she would one day grow into,

The prince that would one day come.

She was a girl doing a woman’s work.

She was a child living the adult life.

She was the being who dreamt of being a memory

The book of her life would be ridged, torn, and disheveled,

Bound only by a red

Plastic paper clip

Holding the tip of the story’s wonder together.

One false move would shuffle the horror-driven epic, and it would be lost forever.

Now she sits writing,

The cold strips of pleated steel beneath her.

The crisp edges of life