R.I.P

i sometimes try to connect with my inner child

I am buried under six layers of grief

In burgundy pants and a striped tee

A child lost to his hands

Sometimes I can still feel the carpet

(Sometimes I can still feel)

And maybe I should be proud that I fought

How I kicked and screamed and ran as fast as I could

Away from the trauma

A survivor’s narrative -- “I didn’t let him take me!”

But I did

In his room, in his house, in the white walls of a building

Images I can no longer remember clearly

As if the memories are buried with me.