History Was Forgotten

History was forgotten on purpose,

now returning,

vengeful, in the worst dreams

fallen into at the darkest point

of each night like rising water,

the past survived, the past

zombified and starving.

My own flesh never looked

this exquisite,

hand delivered

to my aching jaw, my decaying teeth

prepared to strip the flesh,

tender,

for these imaginary guests,

these ghosts, these ghouls.

They pry open the locked doors

with their aching tools,

horrified by what’s behind them,

reminded each time of their discovery

by closed eyelids,

of what they wish they could forget,

colourful engravements forced into the thick dust.

History was forgotten on purpose,

or at least that was the intention,

but the horrors survive

in the shadowy corners of the mind,

especially those too vivid to mention.

What we loved too much and crushed or lost

returns to us by nightfall,

regardless of whether we wish for it to crop up,

something now missing in its eyes,

inexpressive, haunting,

those dead seers locked on your restless body

twitching uneasily, alone in the dark,

the room full of the presence of absence

and you can’t tell if you’re a

secret part of that party,

never knowing whether you’re the one

haunting or haunted.