Little did I know the bedtime stories my mother whispered in my ears were about me

 

At 10 she tucked me tight into her arms and cradled me as though I had no weight

Our bodies rocked to emotional breakdowns and cries for help no one could hear

The words in the unfortunate events of my future shattered to the skin of my eardrums

Beating rhythm of suicidal thoughts and days of living in my head

 

At 13 it became second nature to see men in white rooms and women in costumes

My vision was now accustomed to dark tones and soft voices of nugatory

I remember my mother’s stories of a girl who could not keep things together

Always needing to follow the sounds in her head, screaming

“Ade and I were on our way to find new adventures”

But those words were gunned down before they could sprout

 

At 15 I began to feel burns on my body that were inflicted by my hands

I took blade to flesh like an artist takes a paintbrush to a canvas

 

At 17 I learnt the art of tricking myself to live outside my head

Stapled earphones to my cilia after I failed to OD on anti-ds

All in the pursuit of preventing my dopamine level from sinking

My mother always said the girl had superpowers

So at 17 I went about proclaiming my strength and thanking the heavens

Only to be restrained by my incapability of being in control of my mental state