Tokyo, Spokyo.

I haven’t told them the worst of it.

I haven’t told them that I saved my own life at four years old.

I haven’t told them I regret it.

I haven’t told them of the memories,

The ones I can’t recall

And the ones I’ll never know.

The blank spaces my brain has created to protect me from even more harm.

I haven’t told them the late dark nights in the back seat of the rusted blue car.

I haven’t told them of the narrow escapes or the the times I was caught.

I haven’t told them of the neglect and the constant exposure.

I haven’t told them of never being protected.

I haven’t told them of hunger that ended with hot oil and bubbling skin.

I haven’t told them that I no longer dream,

That I no longer hope.

Because I told them other things

And they couldn’t hear me

Because I shared other memories, other realities

And they were silent.

And now my mouth is dry and full of cobwebs.

I will never tell again.