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Slit
The knife finds itself in yourhand,
The hand moves towards him,
You raise it,
Slice.
You slit.
You cut.
You open your eyes.
Bars.
Courtroom.
Court chair.
You tell me,
The knife was never in your hands.
Then it comes to you,
The dream,
The nightmare.
Reality.
You slit.
You’re a killer.
And your father is dead.
Made my head tingle. The disjointedness of this poem, just like the missing pieces of memory here. Good work.
~Kate~