5-year-old me would be scared of the monster she became,

Hiding from her under toasty blankets, not a toe peeping out

For fear that she'd engulf herself, that her anguish would

ensnare her.

5-year-old me never saw this coming,

Never dreamt that her screams would strangle her,

That her lungs would implode with the weight of leaden despair.

5-year-old me would break her fragile heart

If she saw her reckless encounters with strange men,

Kisses stained by black tears, touches tainted with vacancy.

5-year-old me could never have imagined

The searing, palpitating pain, the immaculate pallor of a doctor's

office

Enshrouding the pithy darkness of her wasted soul.

5-year-old me would sicken at the sight

Of herself calmly pressing a kitchen knife to her thigh,

Reveling in the cool sting that lances her flesh.

5-year-old me is dying.

She began to die when her father spat, her mother raged,

Her sister stopped eating, her grandmother decayed.

5-year-old me withered when her beloved departed.

His "I'll never leave you" became "I don't want you anymore;"

His "I love you" became nonchalant silence.

So I guess I don't have to worry about 5-year-old me anymore.

She's been dying for a long time. She is tired. She is worn.

Now I must let her go to sleep, where she'll never be a monster.