Midwestern night.
There’s something out in the fields,
Something banging on the roof.
Fresh vomit in the toilet.
The sink is running, so you can’t
Hear your own heavy breathing.
Dad snores away in bed
Oblivious to the monster at the window.
The memory of nights like these
Grow archaic to him now.
But when you pass through the kitchen
On your way back to your room
Those eyes blare just as real as yours do.
On my sixteenth birthday.
I curled into a ball in the frayed, silk afterglow of childhood,
When you are old
Your skin will become like paper,
And your bones will be like the wooden ribs
Of a lantern
So that the world will see the light in your chest.
But I don't need to wait
I hung in the sky, frowning down at the city below me
Scowling because Peter Pan went away.
I had stretched, and my body had run away
In the years since then.
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