In my nightmare there is a black bull
or a man in white – they both wait
I am not allowed to look over my shoulder

punishment changes as I grow older
trauma becomes a delicacy
we talk about it, without ever really
talking about it –

you make a joke about the basement
which was the worst night of my life
but somehow not yours

oh how I want to peel away the layers
to get at what you think
there are six years between us
and I can count the truths on my fingers

perhaps confrontation is the only way through
but when I say stop in my nightmares
it sounds silent
and it does in real life, too.