This is the kind of forgetting
that hurts the most.
Let silence cut you open
Let the lush memories extend their
microscopic claws, their fingernails
perfectly horrid, slicing at your chest,
wanting out, wanting to be free.
a monster inside of you? Then
why do you feel so monstrous? So
relentlessly bloody, so stained by
your catastrophic past, so unhuman.
If we are who we are because
of our past then you are
probably a monster after all
but perhaps we’re all monsters
because when life gushes forth,
a crimson waterfall
splashing into life, gushes forth
from your chest, rips you open:
you have nowhere to hide, except
in the dark. And aren’t we all,
more or less, hiding in the dark?