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.
Recent Poetry Posts
In my youth, I spoke with God during the confluence of night and dawn. He has since wandered off to tend to unknown matters; leaving me to mutter to myself.
When the day comes and I at last clear this dense wood, I shall meet you on the other side.
Delve into my soul find the place where I am most alone and dwell there.