A Poem

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.