She’s only told me about the good memories with her father when she was a child 

She was the first-born and he adored her — there are pictures to prove it

He held her and smiled at the camera — a smile that is now hard to capture

He used to take pictures with his old Canon, and of her there are more than any of the other siblings

Was it a reflection of their relationship or just of his hobby at the time?

Her story so easily and conveniently rewritten through his words and old photographs

She remembers one night: crying, slashes from a belt hit her tiny body

Was it a dream? The only one of its kind.

Peculiar her siblings never had these dreams

Dreams states, coping mechanisms

Hard to decipher our hidden realities

One runs the risk of moral defeat

But also the reward of compassionate clarity