It’s that same familiarity of Tracy, California knocking again.
Yes, there are vast brown hills glowing gold under a dying
sunset. but then trauma whistles at me. Whistles like a creep
staring at my ass in bed. I try to whistle back because what
else am I to do? Submit to the predatory nature of past?
Therefore, I keep my hands clasped only in dreams,
and ask questions until I shoot out of sleep like the model
rocket I never got to make for the science fair.
When I was in pre-school, we had swim days in blow-up
kiddie pools. I was scared of the children who weaponized
water like a puppet. Splashes that’d enter my nostrils without
permission, as a stranger might a home. The feeling of being
entered hurts so much these days. The familiarity of Tracy,
California is knocking on my door again. Uninvited as always,
carrying historical texts of the needle entering on repeat.
I was ten years old. This medication paralyzed me.
No court order can mend the uninvited
plunge of a needle.