EyesHeartStomach

Throwing up on the stairs.
My earliest memory. Two years old.
Vague recollections of a convertible couch.
At three or four, in a different house,
I slept on it with my mother.
The Underwood devil crept in,
bones and all, waiting for me.
Though I ran, he followed, he kept near
as I begged for protection,
and though it seemed uncertain and wooden,
perhaps I was safe?
Later I awoke in a panic,
alone in the cold,
dark hallway -
how did I get there?
Where were the rest of them?
Creeping, tiny in a nightgown
the darkness of 1975.

When did I begin to run away?
Was it in the quest for the white stuffed cat,
made of real fur, eyes of blue
a mascot of belief that someone, at some time, found me precious?
Was it at the onset of the perpetual search
for the hidden attic room
above the roof,
how could I have known
it led to nowhere?

Pink Floyd The Wall impregnates the air
as hands and confusion find me,
perhaps I was eight,
spying
my fault
believing I was nothing
in truth
having not the vaguest sense
of what young flesh could inspire.
All was internal, til then
and simple, and safe.

What is the cost
of a breach
in belief
of a breach
in innocence.
What is the cost
of blue eyes
spiraling
internally
eternally
of a heart
slammed against kindness
and open-ness,
of a child's need
to please.

Tell me I'm safe.
Hold me like the sun.