We wail over our dead childhoods like mothers,
detectives, who did this to us, who killed, who
told us that we had to grow up when we had
never really lived before the growing? But
maybe there's something for us there, in
the land of silent adulthood, where you
wear your wounds on the inside, far from
the picking that won't let them heal.
I'm growing tired of my pointing finger, even
the ghosts of my bruises are becoming
quiet. They know there's no revenge, only
figuring out how to rebuild, and with what
tools. So what the pieces are scattered,
so what the edges are jagged, hard to
piece back together? You prefer the
endless lament, the past never receding,
corpse of broken childhood forever
pestering, always tugging at your sleeve?

11/30/2004

Posted on 11/30/2004
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