At three I had confided in you
about the monsters under my bed,
you scoffed at such ridiculousness –
the fears were just inside my head.
Science was never my best subject,
made up formulas, bonds that wed.
You said if I studied I would prevail,
that failure cannot consume my head.
Waves of violence and destruction
broke me until my eyes turned red.
You said I should have adjusted by now
for pain is only inside my head.
Years of endlessly being knocked down,
maybe I should live somewhere else instead . . .
You hollered even louder this time,
“Stop making things up in your head!”
In time I crumble under his touch,
refuse my body its right to be fed
and you remind me he doesn’t understand much
and to get those thoughts out of my head.
Giving up, I fold what cards remained –
there was nothing left to be said.
I accepted the bruises, fists of language,
seeking shelter inside of my head.
The first few moons I clung to hope
praised for being impressively well-read,
but quite quickly, however, I came to realize
I cannot feel love in the confines of my head.
Mother, how hard is it for you to see
why I yearn to walk amongst the dead?
Those monsters I once told you about?
They now live inside my head.