Eight
I am eight years old
and sleep with a backpack
full of prized possessions:
My Hilary Duff CD
and my dance trophy.
I am prepared for disaster
but afraid of everything.
I know who’s footsteps
sound like shuffling
or stampedes.
My father is the boogeyman.
I an older now
and sleep with ambien.
I am afraid of footsteps
I no longer hear
the boogeyman.
2 thoughts on "Eight"
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METAMORPHOSIS, WHATEVER THIS IS, WHATEVER I’M GOING THROUGH.
Don’t know if it’s the same album, but I love her, regardless.
What other album would it even be. Duh! A true queen.