Childhood is often marked for its purity,

For someone not yet hardened by grief,

Hardship,

Horror,

But all it means is new experiences,

And being told your life cannot be hard,

Haunted

Horrific.

And you sit on the creaky porch step,

The wind yells in your ears,

And you watch as a march of black ants carries a fly to slaughter.

You watch stories on the boxy tv,

Hitting it when it cuts out,

And fixate on the slow shows,

The creepy shows,

The a little too red shows,

And you shut it off when you hear the front door slam.

You scratch out miles of words,

Books longer than your mother’s favorite one,

And draw pictures a smidgen too dark,

The neck too long,

The eyes a little too wide,

Too bloodshot.

And you sit at the kitchen table,

And you smile,

And eat your collard greens,

And grip the fork a little too tight,

You wouldn’t hurt anyone,

You wouldn’t,

But your father’s words are ignorant,

And your mother’s biting,

You breathe in,

Out,

In,

Out,

And set down the fork,

Remembering the sharp coolness of the metal.