Hayden Trinkman

there was a sort of wailing in the street.

the type that only mothers could hear in darkened rooms as daughters faced their brothers heat.

the type that crashlanded onto to jetpads and showed no mercy when the reigns of endeavors held tight until the bitter end. 

the type that endowed happiness with forgetfullness and darkened the already bleak shadows of the curtains in a little girls room.

the type that entered new realms into the demons of childrens heads and invited monsters for picnics under the bed.

there was a sort of forgetfullness in the air of a now burned down house and the memories of the ashes were present before the arsons heat. 

the type that took down years of forever in the blink of an eye.

the type that turned best friends into almost twins and brought them closer than ever.

the type that burned scars onto the thighs of the child who couldnt bear any more and the type that showed no mercy when she tried to beg for air.

the type that did not fear the jaws of death because within them was the clear night sky of the ever darkening regret.

there was memory between the wall and the bed where two little children slept with a box of toys and a hidden power ranger figurette

the type that sweet tea doesnt wash away and lavish parties cannot be bright enough to make fade.

the type that stuck like cigarette smoke in the wooden walls of a granmothers house, sticking thick and syruping like the ashes of regret.

the type that sends a brother to jail for raw but not for rape.

the type that cant be forgiven with empty apology letters or with a laugh in the middle of a walmart aisle.

there was a sort of crackling in the letters that a teenage misfortune wrote. 

the type that leaves cuts with every memory that a typo revives and the type that gives little girls early graves beneath their brothers weight.

the type that leaves scars that cannot be undone and forces a child to leave a chat because the word pot makes her want to end her life

the type that rshows suffering to no one and hides tears in calls with her boyfriend because for 17 years she has been told to be quiet because being loud does nothing

the type that raised a little girl into believing that what he did was her fault

the type that made her feel so unloved that when her ex boyfriend told her she didnt have a choice she didnt think twice because it was 

the type that showed her that no matter what she wanted to be or the aspirations she held, it was not her body. it was the body of everyone around her

the type that leaves bruises after a night out because 

there was a wailing in the street and it was coming from her bedroom but she wasnt alone and no one came to save her so she grew up to be

the type that lived every day wondering where she went wrong and saying she was fine even if she isnt because it isnt her mouth and it isnt her hair and it isnt her lips

the type that proved to her that she did not own herself because she wasnt a mind or the poetry she wrote trying to understand what happened when he woke her up in the middle of the night with his mouth between her thighs

the type that let her mother tell her it was a dream and the type that proved again and again that she was alone

the type that wont let her tell anyone whats going on with her and why she gets so quiet on the phone

the type that clouds her eyes with tears because this poem is frantic and uneven and grammatically incoorect

there was a forgetfullness in that night

the type that puts duct tape over her mouth when her boyfriend asks whats wrong

the type that blurs the line between a yes and a no and doesnt allow her to say no because to say no was to have a choice and she had never had a choice

the type that burned her poetry notebook in the seventh grade and allowed her to forget god and denounce heaven 

the type that made burning alive or putting a bullet in her head seem better than this so called "life" because the better choice is to be dead

the type that moved her fingers across the keyboard even after she admitted that she needed to stop

the type that unrooted memories she thought she had long forgotten and brought air to the surface only long enough for her to long for oxygen 

the type that got her drunk at one in the morning and left razor blade kisses on her wrist

the type that promises cant mend and stitches cant heal because with her, what is broken stays broken and there is no getting better anymore

ther was a phrase her father wrote in a leather bound square notebook with a circle carved into the front

the type that she clung to for years after the escapades seemed to be over but they were never really over

the type that showed her again and again that what happened to her didnt matter and brought her numb to her knees

the type that her ex boyfriend told her was her fault because "she could have asked for help" but she did asked for help! She begged to be helped

there is no shining in the darkness and no light at the end of the tunnel

there is forgiveness and there is no riteous way out

there is no heaven and no angels like the ones over her grandmothers bed

there is no fire that will catch on her brothers marshmallow and burn his chin, leaving a tiny pink scar that she laughs at now and then

there is no forgetting what happened in the middle of the night

there is only the memory of a sock 

there is only the memory of a broken window from when her brother got mad 

there is only the memory of a blue shirt he unbuttoned

there is only the memory of a single tear in the middle of the night

there is only the memory of a game her brother taught her

there is only the memory of a letter her brother sent her

there is only the memory of a call late at night with her boyfriend where her brothers name made her burst into tears

there is only the memory of a broken child

there is only the memory of a baby who is dead because she died at barely even five

there is only the memory of a boy who told her to move on but how do you move on when everything around you is turning in slow motion and your boyfriend wont respond

there is only the memory of a text that sent too late and throwing up the next day

there is only the memory of a glass shard in the school bathroom and being sent to the nurse because your teacher thought you accidentally got cut

there is only the memory of a therapist telling you that "not everyone is good enough"

but maybe, there is nothing after all

maybe we just die 

and like it started

slowly

we fade and we let the darkness consume us and then before we even see the grave,

we are gone

and like everything she lived for,

there is nothing