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Weapons of Mass Destruction

By
Tiny and desperate and needy
Arms reaching out to her mother’s neck.
Broken bonds lurking in the shadows, waiting.
Curiosity calling, love playing teacher.

Told to be independent,
Strong and sure. Only
Three, not yet ready to leave
The classroom. My protector,
Teacher, my leader.

All that was wanted was a taste
Of something new. I was
Demon, birthed from the fiery red
Of my mother. Wouldn’t let taste buds
Taste, wouldn’t allow for distraction,
Breathing heavy, gasping for air,
Hairs stood up straight, fearing,
Sensing danger, about to attack,
I took out weapons.

I and Hate and You.

Breeze. Sweat. Exhausted
Breathe, like a fiery dragon.
Screaming. Crying. Alone

In my bed, by myself.
It was over. It had been said.
It was stronger than my, three-year-old, body.

Her heart felt like a jagged, broken brick
Tearing her insides and weighing her down.
The very first time she learned to love,
By being taught to hate.





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