Trigger Warnings: PTSD; Flashback; Sexual Assault; Abuse
Read at your own risk. Please practice caution and discretion.
flat, lumpy mattress, pressed over metal bars,
“you’ve never had a kind touch,” HE
tastes like blueberry Hooka where is the smoke? why
can’t i breathe? my lungs —i can’t
the TV’s on in our garage; the Donnie Darko rabbit
watches me, watches HIS pelvis beat on top of me
close my eyes no-
body will notice the salt on my face, in my mouth,
my wet moans —screams? —cries over the surround
sound of a ringtone? of my mom’s Baptist advice that pleads
“all men are Vikings,” SHE
left seven voicemails begging me to go to church first —then re-
turn home where Jesus loves me? where
i’m welcome to my childhood bunk
firm, even mattress, raised high on screeching springs,
“i never asked to be born,” i whisper
into the pillows kissed with blood-and-drool-and-shame-
how many dead cells do we lie with?
do we lie
—where am i?
a hard, often dirty surface, no bias for carpet or wood or tile, and i wake up
“are you okay?” THEY ask