Wendy Jensen
I accelerate onto the freeway
trees flashing by
and my assured solitude tickles awake a memory.
An unbidden flicker
quiet as snow on sand.
A piece of my child self
hidden by adult skin.
That piece forbids movement
leaving me as if
dead inside.
She whispers
close my eyes
turn off the switch to my ears
numb my skin
shutter my brain
stay alive.
Don't feel
because therein lies danger
the possibility of bursting out into the world
curtains opening
flooding me with sights
and sounds
and worst of all
remembered sensations.
I hold tightly to the wheel
carefully follow the painted lines
while the terror of his touch
floods back into my bones
un-aged