A Poem3/1/2017 nightmare (ptsd)mean Mike guy we went to high school with – was he a friend of yours? – tortures me tonight’s nonsense concept is that I must bake some kind of bread to his liking in just fifteen minutes, (I don’t know how to bake bread) to redeem myself for… not knowing what it is to be poor…? (the concept doesn’t matter) he makes me say it, apologize saying it’s my fault that he does this to me he does the word “poor” hits my throat like the cloud of flour that fills the air as I wrestle with ingredients that won’t save me (I decide that my only hope is to call for help, not knowing if anyone is within earshot or if they’ll side with him) I’m trying with everything I hhhave to scream for help (lest he kill me) (I didn’t mention he said he would? sometimes when something is your reality it feels like it goes without saying) I wake up thhhroat dry (screamless) silently (pushingly) holding my breath Poem by an anonymous Pleasure Pie contributor
You can find this poem in the form of a handwritten mini zine here. Comments are closed.
|