i think that memories are like a poison.
some of them.
i think of many of my memories
as an attempt by someone to assassinate me,
dangerous threats coursing unknown and unchecked
through my suspicious jugular and fearful veins.
occasionally my muscles will seize
with the remnants of a memory
a painful memory
and the crackling film projector will turn
in my mind and show me
what i long to have forgotten:
a cold, thin hand, deceptively gentle,
a loving, resentful, pleading voice,
warm breath spinning silken webs in the shell of my ear
like the fragile, unfamiliar strands of hair touching my cheek;
and that pain, mixed with that hideous psychological twang,
erupting within me like a series of explosions.
my bones will ache
with the traces of such memories.
and i will scold them, witholding my unrecognizable tears,
hating these recollections which destroy me
and what i am
and what i might have had.

he loved me
more than anyone else in the world at that moment.
oh, how he needed me...
angered and sadistic and wounded and imploring
and adoring
all at once:
has anyone ever felt so much for me
in a single instant?