5 years later and

there were those dark wood paneled walls I knew so well,

the tan, rust colored, sun diluted couch,

thick coffee table, old telly by the fireplace

popcorn ceilings whose mounds I tried to count,

whose very existence helped hours seem like seconds.

These memories surface in exhaustion,

when cold and immobile, I am transported back,

Back to the couch that swallowed me,

Back to wooden panels I scratched at,

Back to the impenetrable table that caught me,

Back to Fantastic Mister Fox scheming from the telly.

But for all the concrete stimuli around me,

details, textures, noises,

in these memories,

above me is dark,

and my body is screaming.

Pushing against the dark does nothing,

I can’t escape a dream that is a memory,

a memory I only have when my La Nina conditions are met,

and my body gives me a taste of something hidden.

When cold, exhausted, and immobile

my body remembers fear.

my body remembers pain.

my body remembers disgust.

And as much as I wish I could wake,

I can’t escape from a memory I want to see.

Word Prompt: Realize


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