Hell House

In bed I lay, electric nerves numbing limbs and

stalling heart; bound at wrists and ankles

by well practiced mental conditioning,

I dared not gasp at her bruised voice.

 

But Mother is crazy;

I confuse my memories with fiction

because all of my memories are narrated

silently in her bruised voice.

 

Grandpa attempted to murder her…

do I remember?

Yes, she was soaking, and didn’t know her children.

Or! do I only live under the power of her suggestion?

 

I lived in a Hell House.

I do live in a Hell House,

trying to decipher, after all these years,

the nonsense (?) of her bruised voice.

 

 

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