The Sunny Season

That summer I floated on butterflies' wings.

 

That heated sidewalk path burning kisses into the soles of my walk-worn shoes.

 

The stench of forbidden pleasure strewn about the floor in varied green crumbles.

 

I could not pad barefoot across the living room without the prickly crunch of a seed promised a chance to flourish, but all too soon forgotten once the high took the promiser to bed.

 

That summer, butterflies would follow me home.

 

That summer, creatures were drawn to the pain in me.

 

Creatures of fur and wing, but especially those of flesh.

 

The apothecaries came to me in the darkness of the bathroom when I wept my pain silently.

 

They promised me the letting of blood would drain the illness from within me.

 

I had contracted a nearly fatal disease the winter before at the hands of a narcissist who whispered sweet nothings for months.

 

He laughed in my face, "If you did not love me, that would have been rape."

 

The contagion of sexual trauma sunk its claws into the meat of me.

 

Soon the apothecaries were no longer whispering kind words of reprieve. 

 

It was not until they donned the garb of the plague that I began to understand.

 

Their beaked noses pecked at the flesh of my arms and I bled for them.

 

A "good ol boy" came riding onto the scene cradled in the interior of a dilapidated teal carriage. 

 

Who knew a white knight could be the same?

 

Who among you knew that lightning could stroke twice?

 

Why did I not know?

 

You asked me why I did not fight or scream.

 

I have gnawed at this festering wound in search of answers for myself.

 

I was taught that because I had given into temptations of the flesh that somehow I had invited this punishment.

 

Somehow, in my search for closeness with a body that mirrored mine, I had opened the door for attack.

 

I did this to myself? 

 

I do not remember holding myself immobile.

 

No, THEIR greed was a pustule that infected me when they stole of my will.

 

They were sick.

 

I am not at fault.

 

I am not guilty.

 

I am NOT to blame.

 

I try to beat this into my mind 7 summers later.

 

I look forward to the summer when I believe it.