“what is your worst memory?” he asks
i scramble to come up with a suitable lie
(the truth is still incomprehensible to me)
and not knowing all that came before
there is nothing to tie off to; no tether

“what is your worst memory?” he asks
like somehow, the insanity of it rubbed off
a visible stain tainting me, not hidden away
but so visible that i still don’t understand
why people can’t see it over the me of me

“what is your worst memory?” he asks
the lie does not come but the truth pierces
i feel the hot oil of shame poured over my skin
see the tableau dredged up from the dark place
where it resides in my tried but couldn’t forget

“what is your worst memory?” he asks
i hate the question.  i hate it because this time
i am powerless to stop the truth from pressing
through clenched teeth, through lips white with
a singular need to remain forever sealed tightly