In first grade, having your head overflowing with fantasy was healthy and normal,

and Martin made friends quickly.

Playing Star Wars in the woods was what everyone did,

and Martin was like everyone else.

A child with a creative mind, they said.

But as you may or may not already know,

something went wrong.

Something went seriously wrong.

And his friends were suddenly stabbing him in the back,

screaming words and noises that couldn't possibly be human.

And Martin was scared to go to school.

Tortured by words,

tortured by minds.

But he couldn't tell anyone.

Because,

he didn't know if it was real.

And telling his father the things that ran through his mind,

was something he never did.

Because telling people what his mind made up,

would terrify them.

Because they would never be able to understand that it wasn't his fault.

They would never be able to understand that he didn't want it.

And years later his name would echo through the empty corridors,

in a rhyme that lulled him to sleep.

I feel like I'm picturing Martin's dreams more like my own this time but I almost told my mom about my mind by accident and my heart is beating so fast I can't