honeysuckle and lilacs
out behind the shed
childhood
memories—and
the pain that built me.
I’m a Timberwolf moon, now
all scars and open palms,
a secret vulnerability biting
at the surface of my flesh;
I tie it down and drown it out.
there were never monsters under
my bed. he sat at the dinner table
staring me down. I would cry
myself to sleep at night when
the yelling ceased. welts would heal.
time though? it doesn’t heal all things.
time sometimes destroys things.
time. people. places. things. abstract
nouns. I dissociate and climb inside my
mind. buried alive. ties that bind.
Day 19 of #NaPoWriMo
Today’s Prompt: One common feature of childhood is the monsters. The ones under the bed or in the closet; the odd local monsters that other kids swear roam the creek at night, or that parents say wait to steal away naughty children that don’t go to bed on time. Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you.
