My First Broken
I carry a small black pouch in my heart. Baggage packed in the seventies is now carefully buried; hidden in smiles and laughter to be opened and sorted in the darkness of winter nights. I slept through nine years of my life; slept walking, talking, eating, going through the movements; hiding in shadows of drawn drapes, and covers of heavy clothing; afraid of sharp corners and quick eyes; nine years of fever nights, waiting stone still for breathing sounds from the hard side of the bed; waiting to move numbly through my own dark house, frantic hands trembling as I emptied the chambers of his hidden guns. And, that is why I cannot trust.
