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Enough Room

When you were eight years old, your monsters grew,
Stretching taller and wider than the shadow of your parents,
Looming longer than the dark silhouettes of teachers,
Cramped together beside you on the bed.
So you tried to make enough room for each of them.

You painted pictures,
And wrote stories,
And talked about how nice it would be
To find all your heart’s
Lost screws.

But then your parents told you
That the drawings were obscene
And teacher said the stories were mindless;
They said all you talked about was
Silly talk.

Now you’re seventeen years old
And no one calls you broken
Except your own reflection
When it’s 3 AM and you’re locked in the bathroom alone, some nights
You’re okay.

But this pretty room has become too small to hold all of your monsters.
They are stuffed in the closet, they have been screaming,
And threatening to tear down the door for years,
It is only when you let the blood flow,
That the scars begin to heal,
But this room is too small to hold all your bloodshed.

And the darkness hates being locked up.
It hurts.

You sing your monsters to sleep at night
When no one else can hear.

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