If you told your mother you were afraid of the dark she’d scoff at you
and tell you that the sun never complained about not seeing
what’s beyond the horizon because of its brightness.

You’re a coward, she’d say, you’ve turned the dark inside of you into a lyric
And now you’re afraid to even speak the line.

Because with every line she’d remind you of what you never spoke
As if it’s just another tool of hers she’d use
to berate you into the corner of an office building.
Where you scribble on your cubicle wall
over and
over,

“Every new day is a new opportunity to say I forgive you.”

Until she responds through your scribbling arms
and forces words like freezing rain
making the wall itself cringe with things like:

"Everyday is one more day I can hate you"

Everyday
you can see the demons in her footsteps
crawling towards your own face.

You coil around yourself and scream from the doorway
of this life you had never meant to see.

In a state of asphyxiation you stop breathing as she tells you
"It’s okay to sleep
Just this once"

but you spin yourself like a witch in a pretend exorcism
With a half cry, half laugh, catch yourself breathing
Out and in like the polar moon and its craters

And even in the night, with your heart making you feel
So small, the little folk inside your dilated eyes tell you it’s not what it seems.
This happens all the time.
Until you understand where you come from
And that takes forgiveness.