Some days are just about coming to terms with your past, the things you did and didn’t do, how you treated folks and allowed them to treat you, the weight of regret, remorse, and reparations that will never be payed. The suffering we as humans endure, inadvertently. Inflict and then forget we ever did. Our capacity for selective narrative of the past, as much of an invention of our own making as the dreams of an imaginary future we aspire to have with one another. There are holes, punched in our memory by the knocks of life. Times we even went to the police station, then let the cops talk us out of reporting. And the times we sat there for hours, regurgitating every inch of skin touched, every place invaded, every out-of-body flight made to be elsewhere when it was being done to us. Watching from a safe spot on the ceiling, or the grey fabric upholstery of a parked in the dark car. Trying not to smell, not to let the drops of sweat end up in your eyes, unable to wipe them off, your hand held down on the moist back seat of the car. Or the bed. Or the bush behind your parent’s back yard. Someplace formally safe. Someplace that will never be the same, after the fact. A shrine to the devil, materialized. A shrine to your devil, materialized. A shrine you’d have to incorporate into the story of your life. After running hard. Running into the back yard of your heart. Into that place kept hidden from the optimist’s eyes and lies. That part god you once believed in never came to touch. There will be no healing. The body won’t forget, not even when all the cells divide and rejuvenate. Not after four or seven years, not even after all bone matter has healed and been made anew, because you will not forget. You, the essence of you, will never forget that safe bet you took, the free ride or the game of hide and seek that should have been fun for a 4-year old kid. I can still hear the swings creaking in the wind. Still smell this hand-held stink. I didn’t blink. I just kept my eyes open, waiting for it to end. The pool of tears washing over my irises like a flood. Nothing happened, he whispered.
Nothing ever did.


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