As best as I can remember this is how it happened:
There was a tree in the bottom corner of a cornfield
where I hid from people who lived inside my house.
I called them step-sisters and fathers
but they were monsters holding out for light.
They were people who did not know
What they were holding out for.
They didn't intend to be so beastly and wounded.
They wanted to cross over into the way I wander
But they could not find me.
And I paid for that.
In 1974 I was born.
The next three years were a bit of a blur...
Understandably so,
Though my mother has repeatedly reminded me
That I was a loud baby,
I wobbled and s**ed my thumb
Marveled and opened up,
Shat my pants as cute as the next kid
and my cheeks could be used for sailing.
But in 1978 my mom's car broke down.
We were brutally rescued by a truck driver
for eight years.
He had the hell inside of him. Rug burn.
I know because he pulled me across the floor.
One day my mom decided it was not okay anymore
That he kept falling into other women's va-hoo-hoos
So, we left him realizing we had never actually been rescued
In those days I jumped six feet from my light switch to my bed
In order to avoid the hands of anything underneath it.
There are still dents in my shins
because I didn't always hit the mattress.
Bedrooms and battle scars both keep well in the dark
Hard dark in the sunken eyed section of a nightmare.
Paved with uppercuts and heart-sparks, spark plugs, and fist-first release
Listen, I'd fall in love with you
If you would beat these people out of me.