i thought it was normal.
hiding secrets and pain
behind locked doors
and tight smiles.
that everyone
heard voices in their heads,
saw people who weren’t there;
their ‘pretend’
was more pretend
than mine.
that the arguing
the shouting
the overflowing hurt
was a normal part
of my siblings’
teenagerhood.
that the belt was
commonplace,
the hairbrush, too,
and the barbed words that mom
threw to hurt us.
hiding in a
closet
barely big enough to fit,
to avoid a mother with a wild
look in her eyes
was normal.
i thought that the child
protective service visited
every house.
that every mother was as loving as mine
to warn me
(8 years, already regretting life)
of the gory details of my own rape
(a word i learned that day)
that would surely occur
if i ran away, left
like the deepest part of my heart
wanted to.
i grew up thinking it normal
to live expecting
to be beaten
down.
i thought that love
was a bruise so deep
that nothing
else could
compare.