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My mother told me, perhaps a warning, stop

entertaining and drawing in the darkness. I remember

years ago looking out My Window, admiring and

envying the beautiful girls and handsome boys.

This feels like then.

She will never see, will never try peeking

into the swirling black behind my blue eyes.

If she would, if only she could, she would see

it’s not dark here. There were monsters and

shadows and things that bumped me in the night.

But I scoured and I cried and washed with the tears

and blood haunting me. It’s no longer dark; only

grief survives. Like a hunchback ringing that

old, broken bell, it rings my head and bangs on

my heart. But I am clean. I am a knight in armor.

She should peek. Still, blind eyes cannot see nor

the heart of the ashamed.

I lost my favorite toy when I was a girl, a tiny

ray gun I played with everyday. I moaned and

wept and tore at my hair.

This feels like then.