These are the mothers of my crisis, standing semicircle watch over the development of my trauma:

your lies grown up in malice and agenda, breadcrumbs and bile you handfed to others so they could learn to hate too, the rumors that lie like engine oil heavy on the concrete puddling like late autumn rain 

This is a blight that will outlast my body, outrun my reputation: there is nowhere I can be without you 

and even in seven years, when my cells are finally again younger than my nightmares, there will still be your hands grubbing up my memories, the weight of your denial stagnant in my nervous system 

I knew who I was, until you