As a child I wondered what it'd be like to be an angel
Soaring through the heavens on white feathers, playing golden harps in tune with the whistling of the wind.

And so I stepped onto flightless wings and let their hands guide me to the skies.
I looked up,
Up to where the the clouds floated
Where the winds lifted my hair with mischief and whispered songs of freedom
Where the ground was but a memory miles away
Where my fingertips felt like they could touch the infinite blue

...

Now, as I fall, I think mournfully to myself
What a childish dream it was, to think I could ever leave the shackles of the ground

And yet...
And yet
I find myself 10 again
Waiting for the next brush of heaven

Small hands clutching tight,
strings of laughter tethered
to floating dreams—
bubbles of wonder.

Sand-filled toes in shoes,
quick feet dancing
through my greatest dreams
of who she will be.

Soft kisses from lips
formed from my own heart,
melting into a
stream to her future.

Sweet songs of her love,
belted with fervor
from within the small,
light-flowered sundress.

Mischievous smiles,
doll-filled hands spinning
games that fill the day
with her glow of joy.

Bright eyes signaling
a future, brilliant
as the twinkle
of stolen stars.

Trusting, complete love,
holding tight to life
as it drifts beyond,
on bubbles of wonder

A stolen childhood is irreplaceable

Lost in the fuzzy static of camcorders

There is this feeling I’ve never felt.
Given one less card when cards were dealt.
A constant gambling poker game,
Not for money, nor for fame.
This **** was rigged at the start.
The lost feeling was love, joy in my heart.
It’s taught by some mothers but never mine.
I pity the souls who were raised in kind.
I love others; don’t be mistaken.
But it feels like love for myself was taken,
Away by my mother, or maybe God.
Either way, I think it’s rather odd.
The way I was treated. The way I was raised.
The way that, despite that, my mother was praised.
My dad, he’s alright, but I think he should
Stand up for himself, for his own good.
It’s not my fault, but I’m given credit,
For my parents’ emotional deficit.
Regardless of where my poker game started.
I hope I can win, when I’m departed.

My mother is a spider.
Carefully crafted webs fill my childhood home.
With great care, she weaves day and night,
trapping her family inside.
We struggle but only doom ourselves further.
I am a fly,
buzzing as I wrap myself in her silken strands.
My sister is a butterfly,
flapping her wings as the webbing pulls off her beautiful scales.
My brothers are bees
who once sought bright flowers and hives of others like them.
My father is a moth,
guided to the web’s shimmering light.
Now, we all lie still, drained of life,
slowly being consumed by the weaver.

I remember this road deeply.
An ache in my gut as I drive.
I can feel these familiar turns.
A cradling, loving welcome.
I used to live on this street.
A place I drove past often.
I used to play in that house.
An address I still remember.
I used to create in that room.
A haven that felt like safety.
I used to sleep in that bed.
A comfort a lifetime away.
I miss the way home felt.
A sensation much like pain.

Maybe I’ll be happy
Maybe when I’m twenty-five
Maybe I’ll be home
Maybe if I’m still alive

Maybe I’ll be different
Maybe when I’m forty-five
Maybe I’ll be content
Maybe if I’m still alive

I know I was hiding
I know I was only five
But I was not innocent
I’m surprised I’m still alive

I am now nineteen
I still feel scared and small
I am not the same person
I will try to stay alive
And maybe rescue us all

I don’t remember when I became friends with the rabbit.  
It must have been when I was too young to know that
Rabbits aren’t supposed to talk or
Keep time with pocket watches.

I quite liked how the clocks spun backwards and the doorways shrunk.
I often laughed at the way colors swirled or
The funny way mirrors distorted images.
But only the rabbit and his friends understood.

Kids at school would laugh when I told them about my tea parties with no tea.
Apparently, the clocks didn’t spin backwards for them.
Nothing would be what it is because everything would be what it isn't.
And contrariwise, what it is, it wouldn't be, and what it wouldn't be, it would.

I learned to hide the fact that the sky was green and the grass was blue.
Picking my personality from my pocket, I became a walking mirror.
Yes, yes, the sky is blue and the grass is green and the clocks spin forwards and the mirrors are not silly and the colors do not swirl and the voices do not wondrously whisper in your ear.

The rabbit would try to console me. (For he was the only one who was not mad.)
I cried and cried and the more I cried the more the sky turned green.
For the first time I begged and pleaded that it would turn to blue. (But it never did.)
I quite liked the world until the rest of the world decided it didn’t like me.

Please do not lock me up again in that awfully small white room, I really did not like it in there.
Please do not burn me at the stake for showing you a glimpse of my world.
Please do not cast me out in sin for being me.
Please let me live in my world, and I will let you live in yours.