As I lie three feet under the ceiling,
plaster figures laugh and grin.
Though I do not hear their voices, they speak
warnings of those who dared to dance.
“Why can’t you love me?” I cry out
at the tired age of seven.
But I’m left with empty words,
and endless answers within.
The room swallows me whole and
shadows stretch in that familiar way,
pulling my hands a mile away.
With eyes shut my vision grows clear,
while the television static sings it’s tune:
This empty house is filled with fear.
But one window remains illuminated,
and this light you cannot take
Until one day you will see it too
and for your sake, I hope it’s not too late.
Now I know why I could never reach you,
and our pain could only feed you.
This choice you made
to dance with plaster figures,
I will not carry home.
-written by Stephen Harbaugh