I was born in a madhouse.

My mother's hair was as white

as the plaster messiahs on the walls,

her tits were dry, her screams

much louder than my own.

On hanging days, they paid me

for selling treats to the crowd.

A farmer's wife took pity on me.

It was close within the barn,

the smell of horse and cow—

warm, though it wasn't really,

not with these memories.

I dreamed of butterflies,

but when the storms came,

they lifted up and disappeared.

Those with destinies die complete,

while the rest die unsatisfied.

You people wear your chin on your lap,

dig holes into the water to find the fish,

holes in the ground for the dead.

I'm grown now, no thanks to you,

still searching for escape from

a world not of my making,

a broken door I struggle with,

but cannot open.