“I mean everything I never say.”

I am always on trial for something;
always finding my brain cuffing me
behind bars made of my own skin.

And so we’re here again like clockwork.

I am the gavel beating against the walls
of my head.
I am the guards holding me in contempt.
I am the argument made against myself.
Every day, I am my own judge and jury.
I am the sharp, unforgiving blade of the
I am the crowd outside and their guilty!

I ache because I cannot shake this feeling.
I cannot rub it off my skin.

I am most guilty because I cannot forget,
I cannot forget how beautiful you look
when you’re

– Disclaimer: The title of this poem is a line from Traci Brimhall’s piece “Requiem for the Firstborn”.


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