how do I tell you
that with you I feel safe
the child in me clings to you like you belong to me
how do I tell you that I'm not in love
that I'm simply still a child
looking for a home, for safety
how do I tell you
that I started building a home for you in my heart
and I lit a fire to keep you warm
how do I tell myself
you don't belong here
I have to learn to save myself
instead of waiting for someone to give me everything
to hold that child in me
how do I tell you, how do I cry
how will I ever learn to say goodbye

in a couple months I will be eighteen years old,
an adult.
I have yearned for this day,
years and years..
I hear a tiny voice in my head:
"is it over now?"
and all I can do is mourn the loss of a childhood I never got,
but we're safe now.
it's over now.

you made yourself bear the inevitable pain of making a home,
everywhere you look.
a place not meant for you, where you do not belong.
you attach yourself and deem yourself to stay there forever.
you do stay there, in your mind, in dreams and delusion.
you live in a hundred places at once,
except the place you live in.
you put that curse upon yourself .

I am, in fact, painfully delicate.
I paint myself with a soft touch,
sweeten my words,
dress myself in silk and cotton, drenched in a suffocating vanilla perfume.
be gentle with me.
because I caged my heart, in fear of pain.
built a castle with the highest walls.
I suffer an endless craving for love,
but am to fragile to endure it

your politeness poisoned your words
like honey they slipped out of your open mouth
cutting your lips, like thorns of a rose
the crimson love in your voice hides the truth behind stained glass
it is killing you from the inside out

For my 11th birthday I bought myself the prettiest gift.
A paintbrush.
It was a shiny silver.
When I used it for the first time, I felt relieved.
The burdens fell off my shoulders onto my wrists.
I created the most beautiful crimson artworks.
I packed my burdens into fine lines, drawing the red of their weight.
I am an artist.
I am covered in my creations, from my wrists to my thighs.
Now, forever.

There is a monster under my bed.
Hauting, screaming, hurting me.
It talks to me every night.
I believe it doesn't want me here.
It screams and cries, acts more like a child than me.
It smells of the bottles in the glass container.
It stumbles up the stairs.
It opens every window, let's the cold winter frost in and hopes it freezes time.
Instead, it freezes me.
I wait, behave, hope.
I stay silent so it doesn't notice I'm here.
Tomorrow it will wake me up.
Tomorrow it will attend a parent-teacher conference.
Tomorrow they will praise it.
"You did a good job raising her"
Tomorrow it will turn into my mother.
Tomorrow night, the monster returns.