The Truck Poem (updated)

I woke up one morning
and spit out blood
without any idea of
where it came from
or if it was even mine
but I'm pretty sure
the blood on your knuckles
matched my DNA
again
 
It was the same DNA
on your windshield
when you decided it should get
acquainted with my face
and it got very well
acquainted with my face
and my ribs
and my knees
 
And your truck
which didn't survive
whatever lesson
you were trying to
teach me
crumpled
like paper
on its side
where I had already folded myself
into a ball for safety
 
And I spent years
folding myself into a ball
for safety
And I spent years
feeling guilty about
your broken collarbone
that I climbed over
to get out of that truck
And I spent years
climbing over memories
to find a way out
 
And I'm out
and I have been out
for decades
 
So why do I still
taste blood when I dream?
 
 
~VoodooRue (November 2018)