She burned herself
In the quest of the unknown.
Someone called “him”
And hysteric conversations at odd hours
Of the night.
Exploded in tears and fresh sweat.
“I see him.”
She was comforted, by mother and father alike.
“But, there is nobody.”
She would know,
By the ticking of the hour hand.
When it strikes 4
And everyone is in a slumber deep.
He would make her scream.
Yet not letting her take his name.
She would call out,
“It’s him, it’s him.”
“Save me, it’s him.”
But his mention is silenced by the tear of her dress
And the blanket that lays slumped on the floor.
He leaves just as the hour hand strikes again.
And she knows it’s time.
When she would gather her gown lace,
Wrap it around her hands
And muffle her scream into a ball so made.
When she should sit in the blanket.
Too afraid to drag her naked,
Scratched frame any further.
When she has to start accepting,
Yet another morning
That she ignited this war.