When I was a child, my mother would read me Bedtime stories. I was transported to fantastic realms, Populated by goblins and breadcrumbs, Little bears in cardboard rocketships, Magic and mystery and adventure. Never mind that she stood idly by While my father beat me to hell and back. This escape was enough. This scarlet train ride to far off lands. I would pull the covers up to my chin and listen. Until I realized this, too, was abuse. My nightly escape was a lie. I was lead to believe that, After one horrible experience, Being, say, kidnapped by Baba Yaga Or lost in a labyrinth with a minotaur, That I would be free in loving arms And I would live happily ever after. But I would dream about escape, Dream about wings that would not melt Or princesses in castles with magic powers. And I would wake up in my bed. Still bruised. Still afraid of the man who lived in my house. Still a broken child. (all the kingβs horses and all the kingβs men.)