We’re a Holocaust

by Shaun Terry

Convulsing

Life is lived
in microsecond increments.
There’s no rewinding,
no editing.
Everything is impermanent,
each moment scrawled
in the annals of
the minds of those who remember you.

Memories stick in your brain,
shrapnel from wars
waged in lost pasts:
the smell of a teacher’s lipstick,
the first time a girl touched you,
a fleeting moment of glory,
your mother at her weakest.

To move without purpose
is self-betrayal.
You’re a plump pig
in an open field,
munching on fat little fruits,
unsuspecting and unprotected,
as vampires look at you
with seductive glares
and grumbling bellies.

And when everything has been made just wrong,
you’ll make a meal of me.

I can’t sit still,
and I can’t keep from looking back.
I cut my jeans like you wanted.
My ear kept scabbing for a week.

A bug is chomping its way
through the dark end of my ear,
into my brain.
How do I make this shit stop?

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