I chase the infinite through a mewling void.
What is found slides sideways past my nose.
Who am I and to what purpose am I to report?
You know me only as a shroud,
a white face curling at the edges.
Nothing is sacred until it is lost,
among such preciousness
I am so much less than I expected.
The abyss yawns bored of my reflection
and into it I cast my offal,
those miseries which have
rotted free of the umbilicus.
Do not invite me to forgiveness.
My inner child frightens me
what she did in order to live,
what she saw and what still lurks
in the shadow of her ancient heart.
She must have been stronger than me
a hero and a demon distilled into one.
I cannot think of her
without remembering the shame,
the shame of my survival and the toll it took
to create of a child a perfect monster.