Pity I can’t bill the hours,
For all those years playing Child Psychologist.
Flailing at the parentification,
Of my youth.
What’s childhood like?
Wouldn’t really know.
Forced to stand as adult,
From the youngest of ages.
Old trite,
About men of the house,
Or plays at a role model.
My innocence?
It was stolen from me,
Along with a childhood.
I seldom mourn it,
Being so long ago.
Emerging fully formed –
The Uncanny Valley in full effect.
What am I?
That’s not for you to dictate.
Living beyond this self,
In echoes of human history.
Feeding,
Growing,
Evolving,
Until there is little doubt,
That I might not’ve been human,
From the very beginning.
Show me proof,
When I eschewed photographs –
Until adulthood.
Hiding my existence from the world.
Dig up my sordid histories,
Until the shovel hits the coffin.
Already told you,
My death wish.
Made plans for my husk;
This shell of flesh,
Blood,
Bone.
I’ve become much more,
Anyways.
Child Psychologist.
