Child Lost in the Dark

I keep a notebook beside my bed
at night, so I can write down
my every broken thought, as if
picking up shards of glass
from a shattered dream.

The bitter taste on my lips
haunts me, for every word
I write is mocked by me;
by the voices in my head—
God! I swear I'm not insane.

I'm in pain. It's late now.
I can hear my parents voices;
the hushed arguing. I can hear
the cicadas screaming, I wonder
is it for joy at the heat?

I write in the dark of the night,
using nothing but a simple lantern.
I hid it there for on stormy nights,
when the lights go out and I'm left alone.
I'm not little, but I'm still afraid.

I'm afraid of monsters like a young child,
except the monsters that haunt me are a
spawn of depression and anxiety.
They hid in the darkness, in the empty rooms.
They are there most when I'm alone.

I'm often lonely even surrounded by people.
The comfort once found in my writing is lost
and replaced with a bitterness. Like an
old friend that has changed and now
spits your name in disgust.

My sister enjoys tormenting me.
She knows my weaknesses and fears;
all my insecurities, she teases me
hitting the target perfectly.
I cry too easily...

It's become quite the pain to be known,
as the girl who tears up when people
make a joke about a harmless thing.
I used to be so strong, but now I am
a little child lost in the dark again.

I'm sorry for the inconsistency.
One poem I'm hurt,
the next I'm "finally happy"
It's a lie I tell myself to help me
sleep on nights like these.

I suppose I'll have to end this poem soon.
It's getting rather long...
but then again I suppose I could chop it
to pieces, until I feel like it's not as
disgraceful to poetry as it was before.

This is I, this is me, the child lost in the dark,
frightened by things of her own overthinking
imagination. Now that I've let my words out,
I can finally lay my head down to sleep,
and pray the monsters my soul to spare.