Dear... Mother
A brutal hacking, that, at its worst is only ever seen as
a slight melting around the edges,
a denaturing,
no wounds.
Because all the knives are on the inside,
lovingly placed there by the
ignorant treasure hunters,
poking and prodding at things
they don't understand
in the hope of receiving a reward
they can't picture
because it doesn't exist.
And this is why I haven't come down.
It's that slight warping in my soul you've just begun to sense,
and blamed on a stain that festers in our heads.
I've also been writing poetry.