The child slave who is born,
She is torn as she turns five,
Then, she is introduced to all her responsibilities,
Her given abilities: to marry, clean, cook.
While her brother is treated like a king,
With his castle greater than heaven,
Caving in, but suffocating her
With all these rules.
The stool given to her is to clean his feet.
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Her tears shout as they roll down her cheeks,
But they make her seem lazy,
Hazy thoughts cloud her mind—
What will happen to her daughter?
They’d rather have her married than
Carried by independence.
But no one ever asks if she wants it.
Maybe, to them, she is just an “it.”
She has a passion for changing this, but she can’t,
Because she is a slave child.
