My father used to pour me
Blood from the steak he was cooking
So that way I'd grow up strong,
And I'd grow up passionate.
He regrets it, I know it.
My mother used to
Fill up pouches made of lambskin
With wilted flowers and salt
And paint angels on them
And hang them from my doorknob.
It was for protection but I don't quite understand it.
I'd write about what my older brother
Used to do,
But I'm just not in the mood
To cry.
My little brothers used to
Hold onto the hem of my dress
When something scared them.
They used to come to me
When they were sad,
And sleep on my shoulder
When they were young
And tired.
I used to
Keep rocks from the playground
In a hat box
Under my bunk bed,
Along with letters I never sent.
And I used to have so many stuffed cats and dogs and lions
That all had specific names
And stories
And when I moved time and time again
And when I was scared and alone,
They were the closest things I had to friends.
I used to know
What it was like
To be alone.
I used to be
Okay with living and dying
Without being known.
And I would rather,
Sit in silence with someone I love,
Than sit alone with the noise in my head,
Replaying every horrific and terrible memory
From the last ten years.
And sometimes I think about
How people miss being kids,
And how things were so much "easier" then.
But it wasn't that way for me.
Being an adult is hard.
But while I'll never really grow up,
Growing older is the best thing
I've ever done for myself.
And I wonder if you ever looked back
At the broken, little listless thing I was,
And saw something off, something wrong.
But I still doubt anyone puts that much thought
Into things like that.
All I can say is that I'm thankful
For you and your kindness,
And for the love that you've shown me.
I am glad I have seen
And been through
What I have,
It has made me who I am,
And it has made me the woman
That you love.
One week and one day. Nyaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.