There once was a fella from Maine
Who added some drugs to his brain:
     He lost half his mind,
     And the half left behind
Was totally ******* insane.

"let someone in" their voice rang though my head.
flashbacks of how my soul died replayed over and over and over again through the fog of my memory.
they meant it so innocently, but he was so innocent when I let him in.
my arms were wide open, I told him to make himself comfortable when he entered the depths of my heart.
and god, did he.
his shoes were muddy but I didn't even notice, his smile distracting me.
he opened my books on the shelf of memories, leaving them scattered all over the place.... his smooth beautiful lies consuming my mind to a point where I didn't care what he did.
I let him trapse through my deepest secrets, my most intense thoughts, while he sat there and smiled saying how he loved me.
why did I have to believe him?
he laced his words with so much truth it made my head spin,
he was bringing parts of me alive that had died so many years ago and I thought he'd stay.... but I also thought he loved me.
but before I could even blink he had ran out the door.
the door which used to have a wall built around it with a lock.
a wall that he broke down, and lock he somehow managed to get through.  
he was a storm that had ripped through my whole being, leaving me even more damaged than before.
but it's okay.... I'll just 'let someone in' again.

"Ill do that" she said

She was so always eager to please

But then quick to anger

"No worries I'll fix it"
She always said

In return she got a warm smile

"I'll babysit for the coming years"she said

"I'll be a listening ear" she said

"What do you need help with " she said

"Have you eaten " she said

"You sick we need a doctor" she said

Then her cup got empty

She couldn't pour anymore

Yet she felt guilty that
she couldn't give,

That she blamed them for it

Her path became thorny

In return she tortured herself

Became her worst nightmare

And then she met him

He promised her love beyond this realm

That she was the purest soul he has met

What she was,still is ,is a torture device designed specifically for her

She should be validated

And he would make her understand that

He became he refill

A therapist she could divulge her secrets to

But she forgot he was human

She forgot her touch was sinister

She tainted him too

And he threw that to her face

And she couldn't blame him,or them  for that

Because there is always more to the story

She might be her author

But what she paints,what she writes

Would never be the full story

Because even she alternates between being a victim in her story

But what stays more constant is she must be the villian in this story

i tell myself not to chide you child  
not to berate you into a convenient obedience
yet....

just last Monday eve
i told your voice that it was shrill   like a hurt bird
(that cuts a career as Singer out of your future)

just yesterday
i told you graphically and with crazed gestures
about the dangers of the open upstairs window
(a future fear of heights may well be on its way)

and i remember once
i told your body that society frowns upon ******
(that'll ensure future embarrassment  shame
and ****** awkwardness)

i chide myself now
   these practices must cease