there are
a few small pieces
of me with
edges quite sharp
not necessarily broken
just jagged and scarred
from things best
left unspoken
lest whispered close
in the dark
it's a cost
of stolen childhood
sweet innocence lost
not always understood
but can set one apart
precious pieces taken
with no asking
now shoulders
are a shaking
need a skill of masking
this sorrow deep
tears fall for years
as I
weep
weep
weep
a grieving
for the child
who at 12
stopped believing
the world is made of light
replaced instead
by cold terrors
in the dead of
each sleepless night
monsters are real
not just shadows
under the bed
they creep and they steal
forever more in your head
that which was taken
can never be renewed
trust all forsaken
the monster excited
his sick prize
he gleefully pursued
at first all smiles
and
'hey let's be friends'
as he dosed her soda
a sadistic means
to his wicked ends

monsters are real
not just under the bed
sometimes I wonder
will I ever
get him
out
of
my
head.

© J.C.