I learned from the start that the world held no grace,
A small, quiet child in a dark, lonely place.
I counted the squares in the glass, to the smack of a broom,
And the silence of walls echoed back in the room.
No hugs from a mother, no warmth in her gaze,
Just violence and eggshells that measured my days.
So I whispered my prayers in the front of the car,
Ten times for protection to stretch out afar.
A seed of a system, a ritual born,
To shield a small child who was bruised and forlorn.
When the good girl got nothing, I turned to the fire,
To smoke and to chemical, rage and desire.
I ran from the bullies, I stole from the shelf,
And tried every poison to silence myself.
Then came the dark powder to sweep it away,
To turn off the pictures and blur out the day.
For six long, cold years in the quiet and chill,
My mind went as blank as a house on a hill.
No rules and no anger, no ghost in the space,
Just chasing the fix to erase every trace.
I walked through the fire and came out the other side,
A slate wiped so clean with nowhere to hide.
No motherly bond when my son came to be,
Just a cold, heavy silence between him and me.
I stood there in distance, detached and numb,
Unsure of the person I had now become.
Yet guarding his world as the years started turning,
The dam broke inside me, explosive and burning.
The memories returned, the illusions all fell,
And I remembered the truth of that old, hidden hell.
Now the Professor is back and stands guard at the door,
Shouting out rules and demanding the law.
The Aggressor still rages, ready to fight,
To protect what is left in the dead of the night.
And I sit between them, watching it all,
Holding the pieces so none of them fall.
Through every dark turn and each painful decree,
This is the story that made up The Three.
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