Moving On

He tells my mother

he’s “moved on”

as if that statement

could erase

the nightmares

he left behind.

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The nights that I remember Him

He had me in the palm of his hand

So I could not slip through his fingers

Or drip down his body and evaporate.

Thus, I was suspended in a state

of learned helplessness

Imprisoned by his kiss.

But a transformation began

My resolve hardened, and particles

Of my being sifted like sand

Through his unsuspecting follicles.

I no longer seek to understand

Why I was a prisoner to his hands

Why my body succumbed to his every whim

My thoughts are focused solely on survival

on the nights that I remember him.