The Monster

I didn’t have a monster under my bed,

The monster was me, it lived in my head.

I wore the guilt like a second skin,

Every mistake proof of the darkness within.

They said I was broken, they said I was wrong,

A discordant note in a family song.

Her melody was sharp, cruel, and frayed,

But the song wasn’t mine to play.

I was a child, with soft, open hands,

Trying to survive under strict commands.

I was never sure of my place in that home,

Until it was taken, and I was alone.

Now I see clearly, through unclouded skies—

I wasn’t the monster. It was all lies.

I was a child.

The monster lived in her eyes.