All that I wanted is past,
and all that I hated will last.

I wanted.

During the day it was a ballet dancer,
light and free in the wind,
the sun puffing out her skirts
as she becomes one with the grass
and the tree's,
scraping her knee's with the weak care
of youth.

I wish that this was the whole truth.

At night it was a different story,
one which reeks of gory
skeletons in the closet.
A strangled safe with no deposit
key,
if I opened it,
would anyone listen to me?

I wanted to run downstairs and make them stop,
I wanted to throw a metaphorical rock
and lock the fighting away.
I wanted to stand in the door and sway
with the force with which I yelled "shut up".
Loud enough to make them see the **** up,
which their memories no longer admit,
but which mine allows to stick and sit to
the inside of my skull, the heavy thump
of their words, never to dull.

I wanted to make them hear what they couldn't see,
what they were going to make me turn out
to be.
See the weights which they were making me bear,
the chains which they were forcing me to wear
shackled to the bed on which I'd lie,
and sob, and wish the nightmare to die,
along with the monsters under my bed.
Which were slowly creeping into my head.
So I'd lay there and stare, at the sins of the grins
which they forced me to wear
in the daytime,
which is only a hairsbreadth away
from the stark truth of night.
My teddies knew more than the average of frights.

I wished them to be happy again,
but when they were happy, I have no idea
when.
I have no idea, if they were truly happy then.

It appears to be a myth of my construction,
a foreshadowing of my destruction.
A tale which doesn't include remote controls
thrown across rooms,
doesn't allude to bedrooms strewn with
the memories of a once happy tomb,
once glittering baubles of laughter
cast aside, shattered and scattered
with the cruel hate of ignorance.

Left for young hands to sew back together
with lack of skill made up by care,
their fingers tenderly caressing the tear which
they would soon learn to label their own self
harm,
in a bid to create a calm in the eye of the
storm.

The wound, well worn, was warm with constant reopening.
The little girl left to pray for hope again.

She ignored the strength the beast possessed,
she couldn't care less, she decided,
and so gently chided it to sit back down for tea
and tell her, once again her favourite bed time story.
It's yelling was dulled down by her own voice
humming within her ears,
of the song which was theirs,
and the grooves in the chairs where
she'd sit on his lap.
She learnt to ignore the harsh slap
of her mum down the hall.

The little girl curls up in a ball, a
peaceful smile on her face; full
of love, forgiveness and grace.
Inside her a war rages on, it's steady
beat masked by the song she still hums
and drums into her head.
The little girl lays down in bed.

At least in a while she may sleep,
her memories may fade, but they're
ones she must keep.