Often I wake up sore and bent. Not riled,
but spent. As if I’ve brawled, bullied in dreams
I can’t recall; the rest of this defiled
life spent in memory. No wonder, “screams,”
and, “dreams,” rhyme so easily. No wonder
I can’t recall. I’ve been on either side
of that word: Bully. Dull One. The Blunder.
Special Ed. I thought … I hoped if I fried
my brain enough I would forget; yet hell
is on either side of that, too. What screams
more than, “sorry, dull child, I couldn’t save
you”? I broke you, child; and since to rebel
is to forget that you’re broken, all my dreams
show me, each time, that I’ve never been brave.