I have read tales that offer children lies
so they will sleep and seep into butterfly dreams
and is it any wonder so many grow with
the hearts and minds of fickle fantasists
when all is said and done, they've been spoon-fed
pretty promises, love lines and lies?
Wishy-woman, this is on you.
A child can't chase memories with needle and thread;
besides, even with seamstress hands, they still
remain as spindle-thin in the end.
If that child could count all of the sores
etching across wrists of sliced skin,
they could see the patterns emerge of
when all of the love lines began to diverge
and when tangled emotions begin.
And perhaps save themselves from confusion's
perpetual reign and its cruel, unyielding spin.
So-called man, I'm sorry but I blame you.
That child can't correct a family that is broken
or weed out in vomit all the lies that choke them.
That child will creep inside of the light and
quietly feel grace as they take the chance
to make peace with lost time
before they face the other, when innocence dies.