My sister says, "I hate you. You don't love me. You didn't let me come home."

Two parts truth--one part lie.

I--I love her, but how can I refute?

Please, know, "I can't fix what I didn't do. I do love you. Can't being with me now, be enough?"

I was three years old,

When I wanted my sister's toy fire truck.

It sat on her floor,

I picked it up,

Took it as mine.

It was so easy.

Boy, was I in luck.

Dad inquired,

And I lied.

Due to wandering eyes,

He learned the truth,

And his rebuke was

Louder than ever before.

I was nine years old,

When I played my first soccer game.

I was too timid to score,

Not fast enough for midfield.

I played defense,

My Dad's favorite.

Constantly distracted,

I often made mistakes.

Dad shouted instruction

And encouragement

Louder than ever before.

I was twelve years old,

When my baby brother died.

Old enough to feel,

Too young to understand

Just how to move on.

Those tickle fights

And funny noises

He and Dad shared

Would never happen again.

But, that's when I saw

Dad break down and bawl

Louder than ever before.

I was eighteen years old,

When I graduated high school.

I'd forgotten to care,

More times than I could count.

I'd lost more chances,

Than I can ever make up.

Dad made sure I knew the difference,

Between the school's best,

And mine.

At the end, and still too short,

I ran to him, gave him a hug.

That's when I heard his heart beating

Louder than ever before.

I was not ready,

When Dad intervened,

Showed my son,

what a real hero looks like.

He laid still on a hospital bed,

In the place of an endangered child.

It hurt to know that

Dad fought for every breath.

His weak hand waved me over,

Pulled my wrist closer.

He whispered in my ear.

"I love you,"

Louder than ever before.

Hurt me,

If you must hurt.

Leave them,

Let them be.

I don't want them to see,

The lies you've created.

I don't want them to feel,

The fire from your lips.

Bring me,

Your agendas,

Your charges.

Scorch my skin,

Just Let them go.

Don't worry,

I know,

Revenge isn't free,

And I've always been broke.

When you go to the store,

can you buy some honey?

I'm weary of your

matchstick tongue

and kerosene lips.

I am dead.

But please, don't

Try to measure, the

Life, you think I must

Have had. Because I

Was born this way.

You see:

My lungs don't know what it's like,

To inflate with the air of life.

My flesh and bones can only create

An illusion: me bearing weight.

And, my heart--my heart is stone.

I cry, I hug, I ache,

But know not a sliver of feeling,

Jealousy, love, hate.

I feel nothing--nothing real.

Do you know?

What it's like. To own a living life?

I've heard there's a way

To come alive for the first time,

To rip out this rock heart,

And replace depravities hole

With something … oh, something,

So divinely set apart.

All I know:

Is that I cannot

make my own heart beat.

But, I do feel desperation,

And I so desperately

Want to be alive.

I am an addict.

But, I've always thought

Of being sober.

I'm aware of what the doses

Do to me. They put this image

in my mind, of a throne.

On this throne, I sit.

And when I'm sitting, everyone

Is unworthy, unworthy

of being better.

Taking the drug, morphs the world I see.

The strength of the world,

Is small,

Compared to me.

The value of all the people

Is less,

Than what I

Must be worth.

In the world,

Apart from me,

There is no beauty.

The symptoms are few,

But it cripples my tongue,

From uttering words,

That could help,

Make anyone be any better.

Because, I'm on my throne.

And, I like my throne. So,

why would I want

To give up my drug.

I am an anchor.

Intentionally built to sink,

To ground someone else

While they float in the sky.

Chained to the clouds,

I fight,

Against the tides, against

The wind.

The tugging means

That I am alive.

The fighting provides

Me with breath.

What if the chain breaks,

I fear.

I can't lift myself,

I know.

Worry is real,

But fighting is life.

I am the monster under this little girl's bed.

She crawls into bed each night,

prays a little prayer,

and wishes the light to the bathroom could always stay lit

even if she never had to go.

She doesn't know why I'm here.

It's the dreams. I do what I can to stop the dreams.

I try to stop the pain the nightmares cause.

She should never have to feel the hurt that she does in her sleep.

My growl is fierce, and I fight every chance I get.

Space is small, and my reach is just short.

Some dreams, I can't stop.

That little girl doesn't understand what I try to do.

Some nights she whispers,

"Hey Monster, can you turn on the light? I have to go potty."

Other nights, she screams at me,

"I hate you. Stop helping."

She'll kick and slap.

"Go away," she yells, "I want to be alone."

Monsters can cry too.

But you see, I love her too much to let her face those dreams alone.