When I was a little girl,
my mother painted flowers on my bedroom walls;
she made the floor my sodden soil
and the ceiling fan my sun.

When I was a little girl,
there were no monsters hiding in my closet,
for they all lived next door
in my little brother's room;
a plaster dry wall stood
between my garden and his chamber.

When sitting on my bed,
playing dolls or writing stories or imagining
what boys felt like to kiss,
I could hear the monsters come out to play.
I could feel my little brother quake,
hear the screams
the screams
the screaming,
while my ceiling fan sun shone down.

When I was a little girl
sitting in my bedroom,
I watched ivy grow around the doorknob,
watched it form into a lock,
watched a key begin to grow and then to wither.
The flowers began to smell too sweet,
like rotting sugar;
the sunlight began to burn.

When I was a little girl, I
punched a hole through my bedroom wall
and put my small fist through,
feeling for the other side.
I did not understand that in between the two walls
was a gap, a void, four inches which prevented
my fingers from reaching my brother’s.

A mirror hangs on that wall now,
covering that hole.
I painted the walls over solid pink;
I’ve stopped using the light

on my ceiling fan.