September 18, 2016 § Leave a comment

My hands are pins and needles
marred from decades of backbreaking work,
leaving me as useless
as a shadow in the pitch black.

I can still taste the factory on my tongue,
feel the rubble against my bones,
the smoke ingrained in my lungs.
The news flashes as bright as my memories,
photos of mangled bodies on the TV screen,
their smiling faces tattooed on my eyelids.

The words are sealed tight in my lungs,
they disappear on my tongue,
so these memories I keep sewn shut
to the inside of my skin where
I can feel them like nightmares that never end.

But I’ll open up this skin,
unravel everything,
spill blood, fresh and new
to memories of residue –
a factory in flames
and bodies turned to ashes.

Slowly, like ink
I’ll unravel to stains on a quilt,
words I could never utter
becoming images for all to see
in this fabricated fantasy.


photo credit: in expert hands via photopin (license)


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