In her innocence so pure (read absent),
She claims, proclaims, prints it in the presses –
That she has never exposed me, or anyone
To the hell she endures.
This is why each morning, I dispose of the bottle,
At the bottom of which remains the dregs
Of the poison she injected
The night before.
This is why I know intimately each intonation
Of her screams,
Every morbid drag of her sobs,
And the taste of saltwater tears.
This is why I know glassy from foggy,
And foggy from misty,
And misty from vacant –
This is why I have experienced
An absence of oxygen,
And moments devoid of life and hope –
And my own blood on my own hands.
This is why with nightfall comes
A terror in my heart, and
A weight on my back:
A weight so heavy, so unimaginably burdensome
That I don't think all the adults of the world
Could shoulder it, and not have a little darkness
Seep through the cracks of their conscience.
I know nothing of hell, this is true.
But I walk the line -
And that is enough.
It is too much.