The Reunion Cut Down
Content Note: Contains references to childhood sexual abuse, trauma, and dissociation. (formerly named The Reunion 2016)
Sit there.
Backs turned.
Eyes wired shut.
Disconnected from your gut.
Thrusting back, thirsting forth—
it comes in the night.
Sniffing, sleepwalking,
head throbbing,
bowels moving
to the rhythm
of your heart pumping.
Silent mourning.
A red-hot night—
but it’s not the knight that’s coming.
Pricked.
Poked.
Rubbed.
Until the shameful betrayal,
the physical frenzy.
Frozen
by the red-hot burn
of white stuff erupting.
Backs turned.
Eyes wired shut.
Disconnected from your gut.
Speech strangled.
Sore to swallow.
Why don’t you wonder
what my mouth has seen?
Screaming pain
going nowhere.
Signs of agony
everywhere.
Shaking hands.
Spirit shattered.
Will never
find a piece again.
Please—
perhaps—
ponder?
Eyes wired shut.
Disconnected from your gut.
Ghosts hang in your face.
Held up by four.
Skin cold.
Cut down too late.
Trophies counted
six feet under.
Disconnected
from your gut.
The stench of innocence
reeks of guilt.
But those around him
bathe him well.
Split-tongued.
They slither and sit
on a slashing seesaw—
like swords through butter.
Whispers
like backstabbing knives.
They feed and knead
their fallacies to grow in girth.
Fed by terror
sucked from bodies
with no hair.
Say no.
No say.
Mouth wired shut.
Smoking tempers.
Frothy mixers.
Open scabs
fester under strobes.
Treading softly.
Fearing toes.
Balancing on breakable shells.
It’s no choice
for those who know.
Your gut.
Reunion highs and lows.
Don’t cry.
Go.
