u/Aggravating_Worth_73

I’m 4, maybe 5.
The world seems sun blanched.
My memories are white.
White curtains, white blankets, white paper.
White light in my eyes.

Except when it’s night.
Natural light is traded for dim amber.
Square ranch house walls circle around.
And dark brown carpets and drapes.
Swallow up the space.

I hide under the covers.
In my room at night. 
When mom and dad are yelling.
Long after they stop.
I hide from aliens in the window.

Sometimes I come out.
I yell Please stop.
They don’t hear me.
Two figures point and prod.
Hurtful tones sting the air.

Sometimes she’s against the wall.
They break a body shaped hole.
Why is there blood down your leg?
She chases him down the hall.
Into the door, the room, wherever they go.

Sometimes she stands in front of the door.
Hit me, Hit me, You're not a real man.
They’re both trapped in the door.
I’m trapped in my door, in the hall.
No one notices me standing screaming.

This time he’s on top of her chest.
I can’t breathe, You’re crushing me.
Escapes her scrunched face.
Eyes widen as he sits like a stone
He’s going to kill her.

The kitchen’s always dark.
It’s around the long hall.
Can I get to the phone?
Synthy green highlights numbers.
How do I do anything?

When it stops, we get in the car.
The musk of my mother’s opium.
Masks most other smells.
Seatbelts click, I’m sorry, from the side.
Her shaking hand meets mine.

In McDonalds, my mother holds my hand.
She explains things I don’t understand.
Red, white, and yellow tiles.
Hard plastic seats and tables.
Burgers fill the gap between her and me.

I have a lot of scary dreams.
She’s dead, buried under brown carpet.
He’s chasing aliens down the hallway.
I crawl on the ground to their room.
I have a headache, and my tummy hurts.

Far back in their room, next to mine.
In thick blanketed windows.
Clothes piled in dusty corners.
Half mauve painted walls.
My grandfather watching in a small gold frame.

Not all nights are bad.
My sister dusts my cheeks with silky.
Not all dreams are scary.
My grandfather as an angel.
Comes to save me. 

I hide under the covers.
When they’re talking.
Do they notice I'm here?
Lay flat and silent and no one knows.
When I wake up, no one knows.

The stillness of sleeping parents.
My eyes roll over the morning light.
A rose in the blanket glows red.
And little light escapes on edges.
Casting long tranquil light.

I hide.

I’m 4, maybe 5 years old.
The world seems sun blanched.
My memories are white.
White curtains, white blankets, white paper.
White light in my eyes.

Except when it’s night.
Natural light is traded for dim amber.
Square ranch house walls circle around.
And dark brown carpets and drapes.
Swallow up the space.

I hide under the covers.
In my room at night. 
When mom and dad are yelling.
Long after they stop.
I hide from aliens in the window.

Sometimes I come out.
I yell Please stop.
They don’t hear me.
Two figures point and prod.
Hurtful tones sting the air.

Sometimes she’s against the wall.
They break a body shaped hole.
Why is there blood running down your leg?
She chases him down the hall.
Into the door, the room, wherever they go.

Sometimes she stands in front of the door.
Hit me, Hit me, You're not a real man.
They’re both trapped in the door.
I’m trapped in my door, in the hall.
No one notices me standing screaming.

This time he’s on top of her chest.
I can’t breathe, You’re crushing me.
Escapes her scrunched face.
My eyes widen as he sits like a stone
He’s going to kill her.

The kitchen’s always dark.
It’s around the long hall.
Can I get to the phone?
Synthy green highlights numbers.
How do I do anything?

When it stops, we get in the car.
The musk of my mother’s opium.
Masks most other smells.
Seatbelts click, I’m sorry, from the side.
Her shaking hand meets mine.

In McDonalds, my mother holds my hand.
She explains things I don’t understand.
Red, white, and yellow tiles.
Hard plastic seats and tables.
Burgers fill the gap between her and me.

I have a lot of scary dreams.
She’s dead, buried under brown carpet.
He’s chasing aliens down the hallway.
I crawl on the ground to their room.
I have a headache, and my tummy hurts.

Far back in their room, next to mine.
In thick blanketed windows.
Clothes piled in dusty corners.
Half mauve painted walls.
My grandfather watching in a small gold frame.

Not all nights are bad.
My sister dusts my cheeks with silky.
Not all dreams are scary.
My grandfather as an angel.
Comes to save me. 

I hide under the covers.
When they’re talking.
Do they notice I'm here?
Lay flat and silent and no one knows.
When I wake up, no one knows.

The stillness of sleeping parents.
My eyes roll over the morning light.
A rose in the blanket glows red.
And little light escapes on edges.
Casting long tranquil light.

I’m 4, maybe 5 years old.
The world seems sun blanched.
My memories are white.
White curtains, white blankets, white paper.
White light in my eyes.

Except when it’s night.
Natural light is traded for dim amber.
Square ranch house walls circle around.
And dark brown carpets and drapes.
Swallow up the space.

I hide under the covers.
In my room at night. 
When mom and dad are yelling.
Long after they stop.
I hide from aliens in the window.

Sometimes I come out.
I yell Please stop.
They don’t hear me.
Two figures point and prod.
Hurtful tones sting the air.

Sometimes she’s against the wall.
They break a body shaped hole.
Why is there blood running down your leg?
She chases him down the hall.
Into the door, the room, wherever they go.

Sometimes she stands in front of the door.
Hit me, Hit me, You're not a real man.
They’re both trapped in the door.
I’m trapped in my door, in the hall.
No one notices me standing screaming.

This time he’s on top of her chest.
I can’t breathe, You’re crushing me.
Escapes her scrunched face.
My eyes widen as he sinks lower.
He’s going to kill her.

The kitchen’s always dark.
It’s around the long hall.
Can I get to the phone?
Synthy green highlights numbers.
How do I do anything?

When it stops, we get in the car.
The musk of my mother’s opium.
Masks most other smells.
Seatbelts click, I’m sorry, from the side.
Her shaking hand meets mine.

In McDonalds, my mother holds my hand.
She explains things I don’t understand.
Red, white, and yellow tiles.
Hard plastic seats and tables.
Burgers fill the gap between her and me.

I have a lot of scary dreams.
She’s dead, buried under brown carpet.
He’s chasing aliens down the hallway.
I crawl on the ground to their room.
I have a headache, and my tummy hurts.

Far back in their room, next to mine.
In thick blanketed windows.
Clothes piled in dusty corners.
Half mauve painted walls.
My grandfather watching in a small gold frame.

Not all nights are bad.
My sister dusts my cheeks with silky.
Not all dreams are scary.
My grandfather as an angel.
Comes to save me. 

I hide under the covers.
When they’re talking.
Do they notice I'm here?
Lay flat and silent and no one knows.
When I wake up, no one knows.

The stillness of sleeping parents.
My eyes roll over the morning light.
A rose in the blanket glows red.
And little light escapes on edges.
Casting long tranquil light.