Sometimes, I can’t sleep at night,
I lie down and lie to myself that I might be okay
My mind runs, and runs, and runs
Until I get tired, not sleepy, just tired of carrying this baggage.
Every now and again I hear the sounds of fists hitting flesh,
Mom and Dad screaming in the kitchen
and the muffling of cries
As I’m pretending that I’m sleeping
Just to mask the pain in my voice
That I now soothe with alcohol
And I can’t help but to think that maybe I could’ve done something
A child stepping into shoes that should’ve been filled by an adult
Doing all I could to survive
I was young, And I feared death
Not my own, but of either parent
A future yet to be unraveled by the seams
Some kids talk about wanting to be firefighters, doctors, pilots
But I, just wanted to grow up to a point the noises would stop
I was 2 when the sounds first started
I was 6 and they kept coming
I was 10 when these sounds crescendoed into a suicide attempt
I was 11 when I left that toxic environment
But I’m still haunted by the memories
I’m 21, a decade later, writing this letter to my trauma
Up at 3am because I still can’t sleep
