by L.M. Browning, an except from Drive Through the Night
The patterns of the trauma align
across the memories of our mind
—inescapable—a blackhole of being.
8,947 miles later, I know now why
you refuse the say the names of those
—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.
I have become
one of the names you can’t say
—I, the one who pulled back the sheets.
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