I used to believe everything
that was sung to me in sweet a voice.
I believed that the factories on those hills,
the one we always passed when we went for the zoo,
were little cloud makers, full of little cloud men,
all working to add to the sky above those daffodils.
I believed that stepping on cracks,
the eleven cracks between our door and the red, yelling sign,
would break my mother’s back, break my mother’s heart,
just another universal contract.
I believed that when you confided,
those soft sighs muffled into an ear,
you meant what you said and you guarded what you heard,
since I was too young to believe in the silly word unrequited.
I truly did,
in Santa, in the tooth fairy, in the Easter bunny, and
in the cloud men, in the cursed cracks, in the weighted whispers, and
I believe you when you looked me in the eye,
the ocean behind yours overlapping the drained fatigue in mine,
for you are supposed to give me purpose, give me direction,
as I had to trust you the most without asking why.
I believe you when you scream at me,
when you tear the heavens apart with the shatter of my heart,
strike me down with barbed words, trap me in my own mind,
still trusting your words for truth and verity.
I even believe you when you haunt my trances,
turning my daily daydreams to skittish jumps with never-ending nightmares,
still breaking the already broken, breaking what had already given up,
and I put my worth to your baneful boasting.
I believe everything
that is sung to me in a sweet voice,