June 16, 2007

in the event of an actual emergency

the first time my skin turned inside out
i was six
and you were dead.

he must have talked to you
he must have said:
she is my daughter,
I will take care.
I will sell our house,
we will move here.

he must have said:
I give you my word,
I will make it okay.
permission for you
to fall away.

the next time my skin turned inside out
it was three weeks later
and he was dead.

routine visit, nothing serious,
discharged tomorrow.
one dose, two dose, cardiac arrest.
"a terrible mistake" / "these things happen."

my skin never fit right after.
no feeling when he took me
turned promises into warnings:
'don't tell.'
didn't he know
I had no words for this?

missing language for something missing.
I will spend my life finding words.

pieces cut away
innocence removed like a tumor.
hope festers
eyes drink pain
skin on fire.

aware, we are not broken.
alive, we mend eachother,
darn souls like socks
writing seams together
before they disappear
for good.

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