survivor’s closet

11 Mar


his name was Justin.

his name was Justin and I dreamt about

him last night, dreamt that he

was living upstairs and i had no

choice because my other option was the

street, and because his confusion

and rage held me bound and

silent, confrontation not an option that

tasted like confidence when his mother was

there, too, watching me gag on

his voice. i forced myself to

be the bigger person

and forget his sickness.

gunshot eyes, he haunted me even downstairs,

because i was railroaded by guilt into my

survivor’s closet. and the coats and hatboxes

wanted to know why i was still holding

onto what he did and they asked questions

like, ‘shouldn’t you just

move on?’

and confrontation tasted sickly when she

demanded to know why i’d begun

avoiding him.

it tasted like rain in the junipers when i

took his sin and my barefeet alone into the

moonlit sagebrush and hid in the trees from

her motherly love.

coming out doesn’t feel so brave or bold.

his name was Justin.

all the nightmares he’s given me, and

this one scares me maybe most of all.

One Response to “survivor’s closet”

  1. I of July March 16, 2015 at 9:00 am #

    your depth of perspective is so impressive…

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