sometimes they steal what you cannot see
For S.S. June 1970 – March 2009 i sometimes don’t know how to feel my own pain i sometimes don’t know whether to feel pride or shame sometimes they steal what you cannot see one in three one in three one in three one in three* i step cautiously through my life, either feeling it burn through my body and all around me, or not feeling it at all. sometimes i stand tall walking forward to kiss my future with grateful lips when despair pulls at my ankle and sinks me deeply into a quiet night quiet nights i remember trying to sleep lightly every time a twig cracked or the wind rose above a whispering caress of the window, i would jump out of sleep sitting straight up in bed wondering what creeps. it was always the evenings when the heat spread its unwanting and smothering embrace across the air so oppressively that sleep would steal me away in slow spiraling circles, down, down into unconsciousness and if i tried i could not awaken the heat kept me imprisoned, until it was too late. it was often too late. by the time a finger could start to break through the paralysis of slumber i was set upon and pinned under hands tripled above me, searching my body for places i did not yet understand they were everywhere at once clawing through my cartoon pajamas pushing down on my face filling my lungs with garden dirt sealing a fate of