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.
Recent Poetry Posts
Be gentle long night, I don’t belong here. Thrown to the wolves, I shifted nocturnal.
In a land beyond the pervading dark,
in a state beyond the fever-pitch…
Out beyond the murkiness left by anger-tinted arguments, remember what you know in your heart and bring that truth close.