LITTLE ONE

Oh, look at the little one.
Trying to catch the bits of dust
dancing in his window’s beams of light
swinging his door open
to catch his toys alive.
Writing his first book,
inspired by a lego movie.

The plots used to be so simple.
A hero and a villain made of brick,
But now you write like a dog eats,
Gorging on my soul.

Our mother still loves him.
Sometimes she calls for you,
And cries at my disfigurement,
As if I’m not still the same.

Ghosts of potential stare down upon him,

Boxers. 
Musicians. 
Doctors. 
Arsonists. 
Accountants. 
Criminals. 
Janitors.

But I am a ghost of the future, little one.
And I am a madman.

I hope there’s a ghost above me too, little one.
But I look up and see a cracked mirror—
Blood weeping from its fractures,
Bending the light of my face to be more monstrous,
more vile—

More me.