There’s trauma in that house

You know it. I know it.

So much ugliness.

We all know it.

Leave the steeple

One. Two. Three.

Mama tags along

You’re a strange sort of grown-up

Insecure in a deadly manner

Drowning for approval

So willing to drag others from their joy

So long as you have an audience

And you’ll badger on

Even if the win is wildly unsatisfying

You only see yourself

Self-appointed queen

So so innocent and over-qualified

So so self-loathing

Even your soul’s fake friend

Has a tooth ache grin