Poetry by Leah Molloy

    Taber Andrew Bain CC



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Am I To Blame?


In the silence of a small, dim room,
A little girl, her heart in gloom,
Her father’s voice, once warm and bright,
Now slurs through shadows every night.

His bottle's grip, her world’s decline,
She watched him fall, a steep incline,
From stories told and bedtime hugs,
To shattered glass and drunken shrugs.

She'd lay awake in tangled sheets,
Counting the cries, the heavy beats,
Of doors that slammed and voices loud,
A happy home turned stormy cloud.

Her mother wept, but spoke no words,
Just silence thick, like mourning birds,
And in her chest, a seed of pain,
She whispered, "Is it me to blame?"

She couldn’t see, she couldn’t know,
The reasons why her world did slow,
To darkened days and lonely dreams,
A little heart ripped at the seams.

She wandered halls with dolls in tow,
Each step a question, every woe,
Her father's laugh, a distant ghost,
His love now just a hollow boast.

In letters scrawled with childish ink,
She wrote to him, her heart’s own link,
"Come home," she pleaded, tears unspoken,
A little soul, so deeply broken.

But prison walls and years apart,
Left scars upon her tender heart,
A father lost in shadows deep,
A child who cries herself to sleep.

And in her dreams, the echoes stay,
Of laughter lost and yesterday,
She grows, but still the question’s same,
"Is it my fault? Am I to blame?"

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Jewellery Box

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We open the jewellery box, it’s old but strangely new.
Memories float back to my brain, memories of a happier time.
The ballerina spins, in beat to her music and her serene beauty entrances me.
We sit in a circle, I am staring in wonder and awe.
I named her “beautiful ballerina” with flaws that only I would see.
A slight split in her porcelain face that nobody else saw.
She spun so delicately, wind and rewind her for ages until I was too tired to keep my eyes open, staring at her.
I would always think of her.
Trapped in that box, alone until I gave her the joy of light.
She was happy to spin for me while the others weren’t interested in her.
I wasn’t interested in those grey and shiny pearls, those pretty necklaces or those decorated owl broaches, I was not interested like the others were.
I only cared about seeing her: “my beautiful ballerina”
My favourite possession.
My only but favourite friend.
The other kids never cared about her, they just stuck their grubby hands into the jewellery box.
I wondered if the beautiful ballerina was like me somehow
I wondered if she was stuck on a loop of despair with no good outcome
I wondered if she spins and spins and spins around the horrifying depths of her mind.
I knew she needed someone because I did but had nobody.
I knew she thought she needed to be perfect or nobody would like her, let alone love her.
I would sneak out of bed in that old house I hated being in or even staying the night because I felt like I had been infected by the plague.
The plague of bad memories.
I would open her box, but I would turn the music off.
Nonetheless, she would spin no matter what and I would hum the music to her to soothe her and myself.
I knew how she was feeling, and she knew what I was feeling.
Loneliness is the human condition.
I talked quietly to her so I wouldn’t wake the beast upstairs.
Secrets were shared and I felt like she listened.
Best friends;
except one is real but one is you.
Haven't seen you for years.
I got away from that family, yet you stay hidden in those small cupboards packed with all the unused toys.
I hope you know I did love you.
You were my baby and I was your mother
I spent nights cradling you, comforting you because I knew that you were lonely, just like me.




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​Leah Molloy is a seventeen-year-old poet and student from Wexford, Ireland. An avid reader and introspective writer, Leah channels her emotions and observations of the world around her into poignant verses that resonate with readers of all ages. Her work often explores themes of depression, family, and the struggles of growing up, reflecting the complexities of teenage life with raw honesty and lyrical beauty. When she's not writing, Leah enjoys playing with cats or listening to music. Despite her young age, she has already been recognised as a poet and is working on her first poetry collection, “The Writing of a Teenage Girl."
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