She uneasily slithers in and out of bed.
Never comfortable, never relaxed, always full of dread.
Her long, brunette bags hand slightly over her eyes.
She blows a gentle wind to uncover those blinds.
The nightstand is covered with sticky soda pop rings.
Her alarm clock is practically glued to the glass.
So is all her other miscellaneous things.
The silence in the house presents a certain look into the past.
She turns to face the wall, slinging her blankets to the side.
Closing her eyes, her senses go wild.
She can’t seem to understand why
that the night reminds of her of when she was a child.
Dim. Unable to see the hand in front of her.
Scared, paranoid of what’s to come.
Her father is gone now, much like her mother.
She has no one to tear her down, but nowhere to run.
“Who’s to blame now, huh?”, she mutters under her breath.
They took their daughter’s heart with them in death.
But abused her, they did. Now she can’t gain connections.
She can’t sleep at night, and even her therapist thinks she’s pathetic.
Her blue, baby boy binds himself to his mother’s side.
He, himself, is scared of the dark.
But unlike her, he has a parent to protect his life.
She only has the hidden mental marks.
She raises him like a ghost orchid.
Giving him the life she never had as a kid.
Yet she always waits for the day his father comes home.
To repeat the abuse she’s grown to know.