Childhood to me was microwaved left overs that were still cold in the middle.
It was empty wine bottles that began to pile up in the corner of the room and skeletons in every closet and trying to tear the wool from peoples eyes and failing it was adding salt instead of sugar.
Childhood was accepting that mum wasn't there and dad wasn't coming to save me.
Instead he was coming to break me and steal everything that was worth living for.
Childhood never existed.
How can it exist when I spent it going to therapy or seeing a psychiatrist or waiting in the hospital.
YOU ARE READING
Cobwebs.
PoetryPoems by someone held together with spider's silk. TRIGGER WARNING SAD SHIT
