Vachon Imagined

This isn’t you, she knew
in the crying of fiery depths
that named her,
scarred her,
permanently.

She didn’t know
where she hoped to go
as she ran away
all those times
from the house of horrors
she called her childhome,
a face slapped onto her
like clay.

You should love your parents,
they said,
and to the religious zealots
who demanded structure
as a symphony demands tyranny,
she looked the other way,
hoping for something better—
walking the streets,
thinking in chaotic melodies,
anything but here.
Anything but now.

They pressed their rhetoric onto her
like a woman presses a stamp
onto a letter
meant for mastery
but read by ghosts.

Line by line,
following human advice,
she plastered fantasy onto labels,
hoping they would deliver
permanent happiness.

That hope eventually broke her open—
but it also revealed
a lasting peace
that is there for her
no matter how much she wants to run,
fall, break open, or scream.

It is there for her,
no matter the hour,
no matter the season.