I grew up on
the music of Ozzy Osborn
and a drunken dad named Tim.
But if you asked him,
he was never drunk
only misunderstood.
I had never seen him cry
so I grew up in a rainless river.

Father always had a way
to make us feel like s***,
for I ate to much
and my sister couldn’t do anything right.
So I threw away my food,
instead of eating it.
My sister would seldom leave her room,
and mom didn’t say one word
for dad wouldn’t let her
speak the peace
we so desperately needed.

When I began to understand
why my families hearts were so hard,
the reason why we ran out of tears,
I grew to talk back, and yell.
Tried for heaven
only to stumble up the stairs
and fell to hell.

So while kids dreamt of a paradise
I tried to dream of a home.
But when I fell asleep,
the dreams stopped,
so I stopped trying.
I couldn’t handle them
being in only black and white.

Sooner than later
I watched my dried drought
flood with blood.
I tried to take the jagged edge away,
but a soul can only be
empty for so long
before it wonders
“Why can’t I fly?”

So if you ask me about my childhood,
I couldn’t give you an answer.
For I shut that out
and refused to remember the pain
my dad continuously gave.
I started my life at eleven
Exhaling my cancerous smoke
and chugging Jack like I would die tomorrow,
creating horrible memories
I could never forget.

But even though I never wanted
to become a princess,
my friends helped me see
I was quite a queen.
With dreams,
I wouldn’t let anyone take this time,
with memories,
I wanted to recall.

Now with scars on my arms,
legs, wrist, and side,
the physiological one in my mind,
the many left on my heart,
I stopped using self-harm
for my paradise.
I no longer needed tears,
so I gave them to my dad to cry.
Finally I was soaring away,
realizing
the only home I needed
was inside of me.