by L.M. Browning, an except from Drive Through the Night, a collection forthcoming late 2020.

 

 

The patterns of the trauma align

across the memories of our mind

—inescapable—a black-hole of being.

 

8,947 miles later, I know now why

you refuse the say the names

of those dead-to-you-yet-still-breathing

       —afraid as you are of the monsters

          are still under the bed—

yet in the silence, you give them immortality

 

Your ghastly ghosts—so cannibalistic in kind—

ate me alive while the little girl in you

daydreamed above the screams

of a life where

                          I was wrong

                          and you were right.

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