ready to be filled with editorial notes.
Some children are born to disappoint,
but a daily meal of criticism
filled even my thick skull
until self hatred spilled out my blue orbs.
No more would fit.
My playmates and classmates were showered
with love for simply being.
I mirrored them, echoing,
but every action, backward, distorted
and wrong. Or, so you told me.
Ten is too old for playthings.
My untouched dolls, eyes glassy with judgement,
lined dusty shelves. Playtime was over.
My only escape from you, closed to me.
You locked the gate, sealing out the light.
Hoarding your miserly draconic love.
My inner drummer marched me cliff ward.
I learned to always choose the men
who loved by dismantling.
They knew all the songs
you ever sang to me.
I followed the piper. I danced,
always getting the steps wrong.
I can never quiet your voice,
the siren in my ear,
the storm of your indifference
forever eroding the sand foundation
of my mirage of self.
