twoblueviolets

Call me home, Mama

Mama call me home

Papa, the night is getting dark

Come out and find me

Call me home

I'm seven years old, in my best friend's backyard

Mama is calling

I write too much of things that aren't real. The imagined fear and pain of living a life I haven't got.

This life I have, this life is real, and I am on the precipice of demise. 

"I have a story to tell."

The bench is cold as glass and the fog strings its way across the street,

an engulfing mass of smokey water.

The bus is late.

I am nauseous, constantly.

There is a Fear deep rooted in me.

My hands no longer shake in tests

the Fear is bigger than tests now

I want to go to college, let me go

The House on the hill waits for no man in the window.

the maniacal screams that echo from the basement 

chills a daughter to the bone marrow.

Pity the widow

who sits on the bench

she and her husband

sat on

Pity the widow

who screamed when

she saw her husband