a fiction poem
I think about you in the deep dark places.
You are the black figure that creeps up behind
as I lie in bed turned away.
I think about you not as a you.
But, as a hidden mold or cancer that festers
and triggers.
I think about you not in a longing way
of memories and missing.
But of gut thrashing evil that smothers me,
in waves of death, silence, hurt and patched-up hidden brokenness.
I think about you not because you’re worth the thought,
but, because of the worthless thoughts you gave me.
I think about not what was or the threats that were.
But, the threat of it never happening,
of it never coming—
a lack of capacity—
a bottomless pit—
of petty bruises and sores of sickness
that are anything but pretty.
But cover them—I make them pretty.
Beneath the brightness and the shine,
bleeds and screams for freedom.
And begs for enough.
Mallory McDonald 