Don’t Roofie Me
or throw guilt at me
I’ve tried to explain that it traumatizes me, but my trauma has been declared insignificant, irrelevant. I should shut the fuck up and become a dance floor in a mosh pit, let the whole goddamn world slam dance on me.
Imagine for a moment waking up in a filthy motel room with no recollection of how you got there. The shame involved in calling your father to come get you without knowing where you are. The handbag he and your mother gave you for Christmas homding the paycheck he wrote you yesterday (or was it?) gone.
How willing would you be, even decades later, to accept an unidentified food or beverage and ingest it while the person who assaulted you with it gazes at you full of self-praise for what they’ve done for you, silently demanding thanks?
Finish your angry dance on the back of this ungrateful bitch and keep your drinks to yourself.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Ekke Ekke Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing!
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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