Night Moon
If I throw up I will die if I throw up I will die If
I...
The words streak through my head.
I press my lips tight until the nausea passes.
Trying to overcome this inexplicable fear,
I bend, a broken tree, over porcelain,
legs quaking, hands forming a plea.
When I finally remember you clearly,
I weep: your old man's flesh
forced into my 8 year old mouth,
my back pressed hard
against the narrow bed, springs creaking,
as you jerked your stench into me.
If I throw up I will die if I throw up I will...
I grieve for the child I forgot,
had to forget, but now
can no longer forget, nights
when my stomach churns
and the moon buries itself deep
into the innocent sky.
Pris Campbell
©2008
Folded Word Press 2009
Nominated by
Folded Word
for
Best of the Net 2009
Art by Steven Shanks: Night Moon
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