Help

is a wisp, pale

as a wraith: it slips free

from my core through the cracks

at the edges

of sleep, rises up

out of the void

of lack—there, memories stutter

as if they can’t stand

to hear themselves, breaking off

in places and vanishing

in others. Pain

numbs itself

when it would kill you but you can always

feel a dagger to the heart. Help

is a memory and a wound; help

is a spectral scream from a child

you once

were; help

is torn from the lips

of one who could not speak

and cannot

feel. Trauma

eats flesh like poison, leaves

smoking holes that sing

of darkness and of love

that curled into hate. The trauma

of childhood pulls

and pushes like the tide

beneath an empty

moon, a reminder

when you brush too near to others

that you were born of a different

realm, a world of dreams

and nightmares fused

into a broken semblance

of home. The old phantoms cry

as you slip off to sleep, aching

with your own loneliness they plead

for your company, beg

for release and ask if you remember

your name.