During the downpour,

at the aftermath,

buried in the mire,

drowning in my bile,

semiconsciously

I begin to float

into the abyss

immediately

surrounded by ghosts

and their tales of woes.

The final flicker

blows away all hope

and I, plummeting,

become a puppet

at the mercy of

my depravities...

The door was opened,

no one knows by whom,

when or even why,

but so it remains,

allowing access

to the spiritual.

Had we forgotten,

distracted ourselves,

we may have survived.

Alas, we're all flawed,

easily mastered

by depravity.

Brutal, "I love you,"

hours of neglect

and all the grooming

have had a hand

in my decision

to become humane.

Letting my guard down,

I offered you me.

My expectations

were of unity,

and of forevers -

romantic notion,

antiquated, that

may soon meet its end

should self-centeredness

continue to spread.

The easel lies neatly packed away. I

try to ignore it, but it accuses.

A memory aches to be brought to life.

This phantom longs to expose abuses.

My dead lavender begs to be thrown out

as I hold on to it for potpourri.

Choosing to ignore the obvious shout,

I display for all passersby to see.

My room is overfilled with paradox.

I decorate the dilapitated,

my furniture is this still unpacked box.

My neglect cannot be overstated!

In unison, the easel and the plant

whisper, "It's a new year. Time to repent."

I was

almost

conscious

when I

birthed you -

ginger,

fiery,

devoid

of love

and hate.

Taking,

taken,

free from

the care

of change.

"No emotional honesty."

"Oh, that's a thing?"

"You've explained what happened and what you did, but I have no idea how you feel. Go over the event again. This time, I'll hold my hand up, you'll pause and I'll ask you questions."

Must we? What time is it? This session is interminable! "As you wish."

The sun was setting. It was easy to think about the day of the murder mystery party. Through the venetian blinds at the therapist's office, I could see slivers of the changing sky. He keeps the lights low. Our faces are partly covered with shadow. The furniture makes for the most comfortable mini living room. Anyone could fall asleep here.

"Please begin."

I let that deep sigh escape. Now he knows that I'm frustrated. Damn!

"We were busy, Najuma and I, with preparations for the party. The theme was 1920s Chicago. I was in charge of the menu and the serving crew, kitchen help, waiters, clean-up."

That fucking hand.

"While you were running around for the party, was it stressful?"

If he continues to interrupt, I'll never get the fuck out of here. "No."

Did he read my sarcasm?

"Go on."

"I had volunteered to help because I thought that it would give me a chance to get to know Najuma better. See her in a different light apart from the church that we attended."

"You've been dating Najuma now for how long?"

More fucking interruptions.

"I told you before, she and I are not dating exclusively. We're building a friendship. Remember, she has an eleven year old daughter. I want to approach slowly. Get to know her and, if things look promising, slowly include the daughter in whatever may be next.

I'm never going to get through the story if you keep interrupting. Can I continue? By the way, I'm currently annoyed. In case you didn't catch that."

More scribblings on his notepad. I'd like to take that notepad and shove it up your ass, but society would frown.

"Go on."

"I'll skip to the end."

"If you must."

"Even though I knew everyone at the party and that none of those people were there to hurt me, all I could think about is me, the eleven year old, at the center of the living room, naked, surrounded by the five perpetrators as they kicked, punched, scratched, bit at me. I felt as if I was suffocating. I stepped out onto the balcony for some fresh air, but that made me think about the time I escaped from the apartment and climbed to the roof. It was Winter, I was naked, the wind was raging, ice was cutting at my body and I climbed to the edge to commit suicide-"

"Clearly you didn't or you wouldn't be talking to me. Right now, what are you feeling?"

"Like attacking you."

"Why? It wasn't me that was hurting you."

"But it's you that is forcing me to relive the past."

"What are you feeling? Describe it to me. You're trembling. What's that about? Are you afraid?"

"The trembling is me fighting myself from leaping off the couch and slamming my fist to your face until you're unrecognizable."

"You're breathing has sped up. Let's pause and take a deep breath."

Fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch! FUCK YOU!!

"Good. Another. In. Hold it. Out. Tell me, how do you feel?"

"Back when I was eleven, I'm imagining that I felt confused. Why would they do that to me? Why would anyone want to hurt a child?"

"What do you feel right now?"

"Like hunting them down. Like torturing them. Like killing them."

"That's what you want to do, but what do you feel?"

"Hate."

"You're trembling again. Deep breath."

"The day of the murder mystery party, a friend noticed that I was trembling. As we stood by the elevator, waiting to go downstairs to get more supplies for the party, I took a deep breath and, after I calmed down, I thanked him for pointing it out to me.

I've come to realize that I can sit in Madison Square Garden within the thousands of people that came to see Prince and the Musicology performance, but I can't be in a small venue, surrounded by people where it's standing room only. At the stadium, it's organized chaos. Everyone has an assigned seat. At the party, it was a small living room, everyone was weaving in and out. No real control. It sent me for a spin."

"You were triggered. You did alot of work today. How will you reward yourself?"

"A hot fudge sundae. And no murder."

The whirlwind of life

did spring me and I became.

Innocent and new.

But summered by hate,

did I adopt what I am

and did what I do,

repeating patterns

that should be discontinued.

Realizing this,

though to some I fall

too far beyond redemption,

I attempt the right,

learning from my past

and knowing that my winter

speaks to my wisdom.

The torso laid bare,

bright in the morning sunlight,

but the school bell rang.

Sorry! Haiku counts syllables not words:

5 - syllables

7 - "

5 - "

Expecting,

demanding,

menacing.

If I'm not

what you want,

why did you

try so hard

to have me?

And now what?

Walk away?

Lick my wounds?

Forgive you?

Fuck off, bitch!