Eight
When I was eight
Things were not so great
Life gave me such a kick
I grew up pretty quick
A child expecting a present
Instead was delivered unpleasant
My parents started fighting
Just the beginning of writing
That was clearly on the wall
Witnessing the nightly brawl
My father was an unhappy man
My mother trying the best she can
The combination explosive
Their relationship corrosive
Living life under cumulus clouds
Feeling like the dead covered in shrouds
I learned to fake
Even though my heart would ache
Every ounce of pain
They delivered without refrain
Hurting each other mercilessly
Only to be regretted remorsefully
Suffering the pain as a mortal
Damage to the psyche immortal
Communication with each other
Was really like no other
I was the chosen intermediary
Carrying their messages diligently
The peacekeeper of the house
Keeping family secrets quiet as a mouse
Too clever for my young age
I became the family sage
Learning the art of improvise
Trying to get parents to compromise
It was a huge burden to carry
Acting as their emissary
On the shoulders of someone so young
At eight years old this was no fun
They were unable to make decisions
There were only divisions
A merry go round of hostility
I finally had enough servility
If I had any potential
Then escape was essential
Breaking loose of that scene
When I was eighteen
Christine Bolton
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