i can't speak.
all the words i need to say to you
are trapped within me.
burning me up from the inside,
but never out.
like hot cigarette embers by-stop.
like crackling fires at a campsite where-stop.
like blood dripping down young legs from-stop.
or arms-stop.
or hot tears into cool pillowcases that
you'll never hear.
i can't tell you what i need to tell you
because,
i know you're not the one that keeps me safe;
no one is.
the horrors would hurt you too, mommy.
every time i've given you a glimpse,
you tell me, "no, no, no, i can't take it."
so i have to protect you,
at five; seven; eleven; fourteen.
and all the years in between and after.
i can't speak.
i can't say anything at all.
