Hidden wounds, like hidden shrapnel,
scrape against my soul.
Flaying, splaying, tearing,
till they leave a gaping hole,
Through that hole I journey
first downward, into hell,
Barely hearing someone whisper:
"You'll return. All will be well."
Published in a book of my memories, "Daddy Was The Black Dahlia Killer," written with Michael Newton, Pocket Books paperback, Simon & Schuster, 1995.