In Those Forgotten Moments

Sometimes I wake up
struck blind,
flailing for surroundings once familiar.
I touch my face
planes and contours
A house inhabited for thirty-four counts
Rituals and rewards measure one through three six five.

Into my hand slides a stranger's grip
Once putrid fruit in August sun
the next a slab of stone.
Her tongue scrapes lips of iron
Cat o' nine tails slashing for sport.
And from it spill absurdities
Pandora's devils with acidic tears
Their cries booming in the dark
and the places you thought you were alone.

And yet I know the gravel of her voice
Clods of dirt and sticks and grass
Remnants of my insecurities.
I do not try to pull away,
knowing this tomb I built with my own hands,
but grasp her fingers in mine and squeeze until the juices run.

And in the light that follows
I lift my hand,
now empty,
shielding my newborn eyes from the devastation of my own design.
I kick a pebble with my shoe and sift through ashes
pondering how to rebuild.

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