Before me stands a demon.
I try to calm myself down,
and live inside a lion’s shell —
like a child behind a ring of fire,
hoping no beast dares to cross.
They say I'm fragile and pure.
Maybe that’s why I can’t tell
when a tender look
is meant for a child —
or prey for the hunter’s spell.
Even when the pack is near,
I feel left behind in the wild.
Most of all, now that I’ve grown —
I fear I’ve met
pedophilia face to face.
(Once published on All Poetry)
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