I was not raised by monsters but there was fear, there were tears, and many broken people.
There we no monsters under beds or demons lurking behind closet doors but I remain haunted some days, ghosted by a feeling of hatred, branded by the words "unlovable".
No one stole me away in the night or threw me out in the cold, branded with handprints and scars- but I have had to fend off wolves before.
There were no monsters but there was darkness shrouded with rain, iced with cold. A desolate nothingness that left room for much and imagination for nothing.
The worn parts of me are held together with spite and all things seemingly wonderful in order to prevent anyone from knowing that I am nothing.
and there is always a creeping thought that wonders: maybe they weren't monsters... but maybe they wanted to make me one?
