Darkness never was my friend

At age five
It was a monster
A monster that
Could eat me alive
If momma forgot
To turn on my night light

At age ten
It was a reminder
A reminder that it
Was time to head home
And get ready for bed
The fun was over

At age sixteen
It was a cloak
A cloak that
Hid me from the reality of my choices
As I took another hit

At age seventeen
It was a reason
A reason to get wasted again
Cause what better to do than drink your sorrows away
In a small town once the sun's gone down

And now,
At age nineteen
It still haunts me:

The monsters sleep under
My bed cause momma doesn't turn
On the night light from 11 towns away

The reminders of all the
Things I should've done today but didnt
Compile themselves in long to-do lists for tomorrow

The cloak lets me hide from the outside
And obsess over all the things
I told myself I didn't care about in the light

And the reasons to get wasted
Are more abundant than ever
Making it more of a necessity
To escape the pressures building up all day

Darkness never was my friend.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

Sour thoughts, broken glass and
A thin veil of cigarette smoke

"I have no regrets" she whispered
"Pardon?" his eyes met hers
"Nothing" she said, intertwining her fingers