I wanted it out of my head.
To see it, cage it, shackle it,
reduce its power in abstract form,
tame it by silencing its shifting nature.
I wanted to smell it, hear it, listen,
read between the lines.
I want to understand and define it.
Cut the future out from beneath its legs
Force it into the past by
declaring it dead on paper.
I wanted to own it but to forget about it.
To visit it, to be reminded it was there.
I wanted to see it get old and useless,
wither away in the dusty corner of an old bookshelf.
I wanted to strip it from my genes,
so my children never suffer the lament of dread.
It must stay in its form,
my best attempt to word it out
with the words of my life.
The context was irrelevant,
just a means to summon it out of hiding.
The story drew it out like a trap.
It came oozing out,
seeping and dripping from my soul.
It sloshed onto the paper,
full of blood and tears of many years ago.
It dried up on the paper,
in a crusty mixture of lost time.
It’s still there, forcing my vigilance.
Repression always an escape.
When I read it, it reads me like a mirror.
It sees my soul and taunts with recognition.
But it doesn’t know how to escape
the time capsule of words and emotion.
It grows weak on that paper
and I grow aware.
The story must stay that way, expansive,
because there will never be sufficient boundaries,
and there never was.
This is a reckoning of how I stigmatized you.