A teacher asked me, "What was your earliest memory of loss?"
I had no answer for her. Much of my childhood stays blocked and dark, concealed in the recesses of my mind. A function of the PTSD, you see.
I think of it as black mold in my brain: dangerous, unsafe, unstable. Gargoyles warning me away from the residual ripples of fear, powerlessness, shame. A compass spinning wildly, entreating me go any direction but there.
"Here be monsters," says a spiderweb hiss. "Enter here and be doomed."
An Americana bodhisattva reminds me about little demons on temple doors. "Get past what scares you," he sings in a growling drawl.
I draw breath and move onward, towards the sacred ground
where the healing lives.
About the Creator
David Muñoz
I'm a recovering artist in Austin, Texas. Stoic student, mystic, writer, poet, guitarist, father, brother, son, friend. I am an eternal soul living a human experience. Part of that experience is working through my stuff by making art.
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📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 01/08/2026
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Comments (3)
So unique and expertly crafted. The idea and description of 'a black mould in my brain' was so well done. You really succeeded in creating a tone that made this poem very memorable.
Oooo, this was so profound! Loved your take on this!
Vividly written poem with a hopeful ending.