I am okay as long as I do not remember,

raise my hands high in complete surrender,

to everything that has once been,

and is now incarcerated securely within.

I am the reigning queen of dissociation,

broach the topic and I will devastate the nation,

with a surge of flames so scathingly hot,

I am the first to burn, and shrivel, and rot.

Do not speak to me about it, please –

it tickles and teases this gut-wrenching disease,

that feasts on me from the inside out,

lacing each fibre with finely smeared doubt.

When your lips seal and you settle on a stare,

I am forced to wait, while the effects of this wear,

I sit, I wait, I contemplate,

my status, as bait, to each calamitous trait.

Featured image by nicolas_oddo. Available on Flickr under Creative Commons 2.0 licence.