Screaming

Some nights I close my eyes
and I hear a woman screaming.
I want to help, if I can help,
until I realize I'm just dreaming.

She's standing in my bedroom,
all blood-shot eyes and wasted looks,
and she swears I'm breaking her heart to pieces
as she trips over strewn toys and books.

And I'm just a child watching sadly
as she sobs and sways and screams,
and I don't know what I did to cause this
or if it's even as bad as it seems.

Her voice is ringing in my ears;
it's all my fault, I did this, I'm bad.
I'm such a rotten, messy child.
I'm always making Mommy mad.

Some days she sits away hiding,
tucked in my closet, hours spent waiting
for my little eyes to find her there
where she's been crying, breaking, hating.

Some days she pulls me out of school
because she's already gone and she's left alone
and she can't stand another silent minute
with empty bottles in an empty home.

So she scrambles all her life together,
all her shreds of dreams and love
and she screams and screams and screams and screams.
But it's never quite enough.

And I'm left, a shadow on the wall,
seeing and hearing and thinking,
all these screams spinning in my mind
and I find myself, lately, shrinking

away from my own dark thoughts,
echoes and words carved in my heart
by the always-present screaming woman,
whose own bad dreams once tore me apart.