Shame’s Wet Spot

A poem about childhood regression

Photo by the author, Mark Tulin

You might know me.

I was the shameful kid
standing in the middle of the room,
fearing a reprimand,
after another nightly regression.

Was it my fault?
Did I drink too much last night?
Am I lazy, or was the wet spot born out of frustration
and trauma?

Embarrassment always leads
to remorse.
It happened whenever
I fell into a cavernous sleep,
ignoring the messages,
helplessly watching a nightmare.

I didn’t know what caused it.
Was it Mom and Dad arguing?
Or a stranger invading my dreams,
breaking down the door,
and stealing my innocence?

Excuses, excuses — the adults said.
There’s no logical reason
for this pathological soaking —
bedding needing an urgent wash,
a growing ring on the mattress,
like a bullseye around my heart.

© 2022 Mark Tulin

In the Dusty Desolation