Essay on trauma

I flash the word death in my head and hear a SCREECHING

of things I don’t want to see, but they flood, unneeded.

Crevices filled with grimy fingers, frisking for Truth.

Recall: hot, languid nights

and my hand is an otter, playing with waves of dry, oven air.

Recall: cold ocean waves, stinging my outer membrane.

Screeching…with joy. I grope for your seaweed fingers.

Gurgling. Sputtering.

Darkness would be welcome here.

Darkness would cover my face.

I unsee. I invoke unsight.


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