Monster
When I was growing up,
I never had the opportunity to think that the monsters
were inside my closet.
You see,
the monsters I had were between my parents.
As they beat each other and screamed so loud no storm could compete.
Broken tables and bleeding faces were so common
I didn’t realize until later that it wasn’t the social norm.
After they split, I soon was banned from seeing my father
due to how his breath always smelled a little off,
and he never seemed to be able to walk straight.
And because he made me into a broken table,
my body splintered on the living room floor,
because his temper couldn’t be controlled when he had fuel.
So I lived with my mother,
who surrounded herself with strange men,
I never caught their names,
and we never really had a place to stay.
Her bruises left her face, and went to her forearm,
but I was too young to know what that meant.
Until she was imprisoned for possession with intent to sell,
then I knew.
But it was too late, because then I bounced from house to house,
paying the dues of my parents.
My parents who made me
believe that I should stay splintered and bruised.
And soon I found that nobody wanted a broken thing.
But now,
after many years since then,
when I am in the understanding that I deserve so much more than
what my parents showed me,
and I found something to fulfill that,
when my heart came to be so much of me,
that the splinters from the tables from my childhood have healed,
I now have the opportunity to find that monsters in the closet are real.
And the monster is you.
Copyright © Cassidy Bergeron | Year Posted 2016
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