wordplayground

...gradually the reliving 
is less severe, you
learn not to respond, like
forcing acceptance of events
unacceptable.

you fight this letting go, 
equated with some form of
arrant acceptance and
you have no way of wrapping 
your mind around [this]
as something we accept. until
eventually, you have no
fight to give and you carry
this deadweight of a wound
irreparable, which must 
join a collection of unrelieved
inert and festering masses, 
creating a personal
history and presentation
shadowed in sorrow.

you tire of those who
mistake the wound for yourself,
so you cover them where possible
and learn to speak a language
of healing and closure,
and with every trigger
you relive the moment alone.
let go let go let go
you're told but no one
tells you how...

...you forgot your lesson
in letting go and 
asked how, so
write this down
for the next time around:
live your life, 
collect the pieces along the way,
in time, the pieces make a picture 
elucidated.

in all your obsessive forcing
you never compelled katharsis.
wait for the pieces,
ex nihilo nihil fit.

somewhat
subconsciously,
i sit against the right wall,
so no one could
possibly
sit diagonally
behind me
to the right
so no one could
possibly
take advantage
of me
like that
again.

at my grandparent's house, 
my sister and i would sleep on twin beds pushed up against each other.
i was safe when she was in the room with me,
but i used to think about how safe i would be on the other side of that crack.
on my sister's half.
i would stick my toes in that crack,
and if i had been a little smaller, 
i could have fallen through that crack in the bed,
i could have disappeared to a place where he could never touch me.
but i never made it through the crack, or even to the other side.
but i could at least imagine a half of the world where it was safe.

i'm trying to reconstruct my past
from bits and pieces that resurface,
only to quickly be repressed once more.
i don't know the extent of what you did to me.
do i want to?
am i better to be eaten away by the lack of truth or the full force of it?
both try to destroy me.
but if i survived you, i can surely survive this.

i had the wind knocked out of me.
lying on a cold mattress,
sleeping.
memories of something hard and fast, pain, crying,
blood.
waking up.
realizing this is my body.
pick up the pieces,
a shoe, a pair of pants, a shirt,
my clothing, torn and scattered.
pull the pieces over my head,
ignore the throbbing in my mind.
take me home,
seco canyon road, apartment 105.
key fits in the door.
questions, no answers.
people talking, leaving crying.
shower.
washing everything away,
no memory.

they'll say i was just a baby,
how could i remember?
but how 
could i forget those hands?
they'll say i didn't scream.
but with babies,
you don't even have to 
cover their mouth,
they'll scream and cry
so blatantly 
silent.
babies will still love you,
defend you,
protect you.
and even when the hands are gone,
the images will still be there.

you're dead,
i relive you,
and still i can't scream.