like a riverbed
seen from the water’s
shifting surface
For six years
I rely on your version
of my history
having no stories
attached to even half
of the lattice-work of my body
My own mind, a labyrinth
for which I have no key
Is there a point to asking why?
Bonds formed in trenches
rarely need to be justified
I look in your eyes now
and see pain without easement
guilt without absolution
But you are merely the jailer
And we both cower
when the Beast is hungry


© W.R.R. 12/14/1994

About W.R.R.

Bipolar & survivor of incest/child sex abuse and adult male rape; bisexual, polyamorist, poet/writer/advocate & married father of four. View all posts by W.R.R.

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