Disassembling a Bomb in Blockbuster

Friday night with mother
staring at all the VHS lining a Blockbuster
wall. eight-years-old. I’d probably been molested
early that day, as it happened often. hog-
tied and tickled, felt helpless and stuck.
facedown. tied to bedposts. fingers jabbed
into my sides, the shape of his piece slumbering
in the small of my back.
choosing a movie was harder than
disassembling a bomb in Blockbuster.
mother didn’t notice the irritation
in my steps, father didn’t either.
it wasn’t their fault, kids say the wildest shit.
my wires crossed into a timer
which wouldn’t explode until years
later. no one knew the detonation date, not
even I knew.

now I’m here, twenty-seven, staring at Netflix, thinking
about all the times I tried to cope but all my coping tools are digital now.
at the touch of a button
I can escape but I’m still haunted,
barely better off
than Blockbuster, I’d say.
the bomb blew
years ago, the down-pouring storm of shrapnel continues
as the TV asks me if I’d like to continue
watching.