I was always been a curious child.
I wanted to know why the clouds moved,
why boys made my stomach burn.
It was always raining,
and I wanted to know why for that too.
My mom told me that that's just how God works.
But when it rained, she poured,
her skin melting into the sheets of the bed.
Who knows the last time they had been changed,
or that she had bathed.
Often I would join,
my body feeling heavier by each passing minute.
I wanted to know why god would do that to us.
Her husband would stumble home drunk near midnight,
and maybe she would get up,
or move her eyes away from that one stain on the ceiling,
but I was not allowed to be too happy to see him.
I wanted to know why she did that too.
And when the sun was out, she burst.
She shined brighter than a supernova.
In the mornings,
she was the grass and the wind and the trees,
buzzing around to the neighbors by 11,
two adderall in her system,
selling her narcotics,
with me in the back seat.
I wanted to know what the difference between 15s and 30s were.
In the afternoon would come the beratings,
leaving me to bang my head against the wall,
and my fist against my head.
I wanted to know why we hated me too.