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Your brain saving itself from trauma

Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

There’s a hole in the wall behind the door,

And I’m thinking that there’s some deep poetic analogy in there,

while I’m fixing it with gauze and mentally listing the other things that I need to mend.

Seriously,

there’s something in this;

hoovering all the skin out of the carpet,

washing all the stains off the sheets,

sweeping up the broken mirror shards hidden in the corners,

throwing out every single gift,

erasing photos.

There are blanks strewn all over the place here —

from one situation to another — sexy semen stains and a smashed mug.

And when that wall is sanded over,

it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

But I can’t make the connection,

because I’m shit at poetry,

and my memories are fuzzy,

so what the fuck would I know?