the worst part is the after hours, when floating
memories blur into one another kaleidoscopically,
the moon loses its gentle touch and wanes,
retreating into the dark parts of the sky where
all the things that you yearn for reside in secret.
the body is weightless, partly from exhaustion,
a string of sleepless nights sings forlorn lullabies,
teasing you with sleep, and partly from the wine bottle
you found the bottom for. as you swirl the wine glass,
watching the sediment sink slowly to the bottom
of the glass, repressed memories dissipate into steam
rising to the top, where they steadily bubble into your
bloodstream. the pangs of drear are next, chaotically
piecing together slivers of the unearthed memories
in search of the truth. slowly realizing that you were
right. an amalgamation of all the horrible things
you’ve seen and heard plays on an infinite loop;
the blindfold was not for hide and seek, it was to
shield you from the things you would’ve seen.
the hours you spent hiding was not part of
a game; when you’d wake in middle of
sleepovers, that feeling of something
being amiss was right. the cowardice
chokes your throat as you say nothing;
what was done to you, was done to
them even worse. the worst part?
even if you weren’t a coward,
there would’ve been no one to tell,
no one to heed your cries. years later
you pen a poem or two, scrapping it,
and go about your day.
