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 meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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You Can't Be Telling The Truth...


oh, but you can't
be telling the truth
or you would have told me
when it happened
but, for the shame of it
the snarl and the bit
of it
in my mind
and the rip and the tear
of the cloth and the flesh
and the smell of alcohol on my breath
and theirs
who would believe who
then or now
and how
when
you're not even listening
i feel ragged
i feel wretched
it was real
in the daytime
at nighttime
i remember
the hands and the
smell of the van carpet
and an odd floating sensation
of me and of
time
and of
not being able to stop it
from extending on and on
til somewhere inside i went limp
while still parts of me are
angry struggling aware
the facts are there
you are
bare
and don't want to be
then deposited on a dorm stoop
put out like the trash
you snap to
you recover
your sense of time
push back the details
must find your room, not rehash
a door opens
you just getting home?
some party,huh, Meliss?
you nod, drop your coat off
weird, you blow them a kiss?
then tip-toe into the dorm washroom
to take a shower in your clothes
but remove your good shoes
you decide to forget
this is what you chose
you will vomit up every memory of it
as much as you can
you do it daily
it will be your fail-safe plan
that was
until this brief bit of
renewed unpleasantness with Grandpa-pah-pah
and the pot of re-stewed reality
he's sitting pinched by the end of
your loony bin bed
you can't be telling the truth
he insists
his face is so red
but i am
i am
telling the truth
and the truth is
the angel of truth
nearly wished me dead.

(whisper, whisper: With this truth I grind your bones to make you dead.)

Copyright May 10, 2012 All Rights Reserved By the Author

sleep eludes, so its to the computer to purge to the page

Melissa A. Howells  Meloo from her Tilt-a-World







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