Memory tumbles me
down.
Gnaws at my pit.
Chews me up from the
inside.
Grinds me into indigestible bits
spits me out, an owl pellet.
Bones and hair and teeth.
A mass of nothing useful.
Tangled moments and
disjointed pieces of
days and months and
years no longer viable in singular
Only as a continuous every.
*
I want to go where
the wild things are, where
memories get parceled out,
tied with red ribbon and
S.W.A.K.
Wherever it is the bad doesn’t
rob the good, doesn’t
taint everything it touches,
a splash of ink, of blood, in water.
TLD
Modesty Is For Suckers 