Ten Memories From the Summer of '17
i.
he carved his name into my bones
with claws under which
my flesh festered.
no matter how long
i leave my bones to rot,
his name will never fade.
ii.
he tore holes in my stomach
like he did with my mind,
both leaking acid
and burning through anything
that i sought to preserve
iii.
i do not remember what day it was
iv.
there is more to me
than the parts he touched
and the scars he left,
but some days i am only
the leftovers of his meal,
half of a whole,
the phantom pain of a limb lost.
v.
my nails are still
peeled back from their
bedding of flesh,
cracked and broken
from scrabbling against linens
like concrete.
he rubbed my cheek raw
against the grain
of that polyester sidewalk,
held me down as filth
filled my lungs and i
cracked my teeth
against screams
vi.
i do not remember how i got home
vii.
he told me not to cry.
he said he wanted
to keep me as his own.
a toy to play with
when his wife got boring.
“right out of the box,”
he called me,
“collector’s edition.
my sweet little doll
to pose and ruin as i wish”
viii.
you have turned me
into a rabid animal.
i have taken to myself
with my own hands,
tearing into my own body
in an attempt
to cleanse myself of you,
to rid myself of your rotting stink.
ix.
i am ashamed to admit
that you have stayed with me this long,
that you have affected me this much;
driving me to break my own bones,
rend my own flesh.
my claws are starting to look like yours now.
x.
i cannot remember your name