I’m fixated on levels,
my stomach curls at the memory
of being flattened,
floored by the size of you.
I need things to be a certain way
for a bat of an eyelash can mimic that
of a gun shot and I am back,
bloody and alone.
The “good” leaves a trail
wispy smoke, tracing its way into my innards
enveloping me from
the excess of bad decisions.
When I was eighteen,
I killed a cat, impact—body—car
its last moments are scarred beneath
Time is a drug of suppression,
to which my mind is immune
permeating through the everyday
I pray that these memories dim.
(I betray myself in these moments.)
As the years trudge along,
dragging me by my heels
but they return, flash fire,
coming and going as they please.