It's the cat

Hello Dreamgirl,
I have a few questions.
Why do you never talk to me,
With your soft pink lips,
That never speak a word.
Why do your eyes shine, 
As though you've been crying, 

I was born on a Monday.
My mom said it was the worst Monday until I was born and then it was the best Monday.
When my mom was pregnant,
She would walk along the pier on full moons,
And I would wriggle around a lot.

Fourteen years,
Eleven or Twelve different houses,
Three States,
Three Schools,
One Cat,
One Dog,
Billions of books,
Lots of long lost friends,
Nine cousins,
An infinity of stories,
A million songs,
So many steps,

Hot, Burning, Anger.
Behind your eyes,
With no ventilation,
Making your whole face heat up.
Rage,
Boiling your brain,
Not giving you time to think.
A heart,
Beating inside your chest,
Pain and shallow breathing.

You can still hear the whispers right now if you listen,
A rustle of old decrative tissue paper,
Or the sound of a knife hitting velvet lined surfaces.

I like to hide in the shadows of things,
The dark linings of storm clouds,
And the forboding shadows that dance in the wind.