My grandmother whispered to my ear, ‘Everybody is mad’.
Old and curled, I believed her.
I was eleven.
The same year, I was aware of my body,
that looked no different from nine or eight.
That seemed no different and yet still he touched me while I slept on my aisle seat.
My head lolled and swayed; I felt the slightest not there touches along the side of my curve.
I curve, I didn’t know till then.
I travel only aisle now.
‘You are mad’, he said.
Not an insult, not a curse.
He meant it most well.
He meant it to help.
‘Listen to me’, she said
‘let me help you’
She meant to help
to be nice and good
to me so that I may be too.
She meant to be seen to help
She meant to be the help more.
My grandmother whispered to my ear,
‘We live in an asylum’
She is beautiful lived and I believe her.
The fear comes from those who don’t;
who don’t remember the bad to be good,
who don’t see the truth from the right.
They are the afraid.
They are the nice.