A hastily scribbled warning, kiddo, but listen, I implore:

The danger ain't beneath your bed, but in the room next-door.

You'll hear a sound, it's weak at first, it might have been your name.

You'll know for sure the second time, the shouting's all the same.

Time's too short to weigh the price of never answering.

The bark is bad; the bite much worse, the venom it'll sling.

Creeping now, (please, not again), up to the room next-door.

Through the crack (don't do this now), you'll see her lying on the floor.

The hinges squeal, an awful sound, you now associate

with the smell of cigarettes, and poorly-hidden hate.

TV flickers at the wall, the volume's deafening.

Somehow she knows you've heard the call, not caring (save for one small thing).

From her nest of open robes and panting, anxious dog,

she'll raise one hand, a glass is held, now emptied of its grog.

"Gemme'morwine," she flatly states, a regular request.

You'll take the glass with eyes aimed up, ignoring naked breast.

In the kitchen, cheeks and chest are burning up in rage.

You'll think of all the ways you might escape your nightmare cage.

Like ways to use the closet bar (it's where you hang your coats).

You've tried before, but changed your mind because you still had hope.

Neighbor kids, you'll hear them play on gentle summer nights.

But what they'll hear from your household? Explosive, drunken fights.

Every night, for several years, you'll know you must prepare

for the one who gave you life to lay all your defenses bare.

The cost is great, and still you'll pay, for decades yet to come.

The doctors say it's BPD, congratulations!

Your prize?

...

You're now emotionally dumb.

_____________

(Please forgive the wonky formatting, reddit wouldn't cooperate. That or I'm too stupid to make it cooperate)