Sunsets

CSA/Abuse and religious trauma in this one. Discusses the cyclical nature of trauma.

In blood we are borne together—
the talons emerge from my shoulders,
ripping me open
with your Good Christian boydom.

The floor is my wooden cage.
It swallows my ankles
every day,
for eternity.

Is it the flies that eat my nectar,
or is it you?

Ripe like the forbidden fruit—
I bet I’ll never know what that tastes like,
but I know you do.
I know you do.

Peachy keen and clean, I bet—
as the sunsets bleed from me,
mixing in
with hot, teary confusion.

When it is over,
it never is.

When I think I will forget you,
I can’t.

When I try to sleep
with night’s embrace,
I tremble.

The scene is replayed again.
Technicolor.

Now the sky is a neon sunset too,
enveloping me.

It still feels like
I’m staggering
down the street.

What did you do to me?
What will I tell everyone else?
What will give you the courage
to live with a man like you?

The door I open
paves way to lies.

So much of me consumed:
a sacrificial lamb,
even by the one called Mother.

I confessed,
and the priest forgave you.

The priest forgave the good boy
so deservedly.
So devoted, is he.

Mother’s cross is upside down,
except for you
and the evil blue
eyes warding off the spirits you are.

I pay for your sins,
no matter how pious
a girl could never
be afforded such protection.

And so,
it is night’s playground.

It is time to bleed the sunsets
into the holy water
of my stained tub.

Scrubbing the skin,
picking,
picking,
picking—

the redness proves
I’m not just
the sunsets.