You asked why it's hard to feel loved

When our dinner is done, plates put away,
when witches mount their stout brooms
and the sun hurls its fire towards Australia,
I release what still binds me...my dirty secret.
A freed jailbird, I sing of those nights
I flew into black coffin skies,
saw him do things to that child left behind
who no longer was me, but rather some
golden haired semblence of me.
My stand-in. My prone, breathing
diary of foreshortened memories
incribed by this man, with his back to the moan
of creation, bartering his soul for
one tiny shudder into a child's silenced cry.

I shear off a lock of my hair,
burn it as sacrifice to witches and children
who fly now where I did, give thanks
to the coven of women, my sisters,
whose spells cauterized and blindfolded me
to what no child should bear
in this lifetime of songs sung
en sotto again.