Breathing nothing but confusion
Living in an ambiguous situation
Amidst the uncontrolled explosion
Clutched by a whirlwind of commotion
Entrapped by daily damnation
Your voice is still  my only salvation

The worst thing,
most insidious thing
about trauma
is that
it doesn’t matter what anyone does,
in the end,
everything is,
(must be, has to be)
your fault.

Trauma is
a voice:
you should have known,
you should have done more,
you should have stood up for yourself,
what is wrong with you,
do you want to be miserable,
why did you trust,
don’t you ever learn?

Trauma is
you watching you
watching what you do,
watching what you don’t do,
watching it all go by.

Trauma is
a voice:
do something
do something
do something.

Trauma is
screaming at a pre-taped football game,
expecting a different outcome.

Trauma is
begging the fictional character to not open the door
when there is clearly a killer waiting.

Trauma is
the hole you keep finding yourself in,
whether or not you see it,
maybe you fall in,
maybe you dive in,
it doesn’t make a difference.

Trauma is
painful -
repeated openings of the same wounds,
hitting a bruise again, again, again,
watching the colors change -
but mostly,
it’s an embarrassment.

Trauma is
a voice:
This is fine.
You can’t tell.
This is fine.
You can’t tell.
This is fine.
You can’t tell.

Trauma is
your best kept secret.

Trauma is
the kind of ****** up
that can’t be named,
can’t be explained.

Trauma is
the kind of ****** up
that is too deep to be fixed.

Trauma is
who you are.

Fury
Like a tornado in my head.
Twisting and irrational.
A wave about to crash.
Frantically looking for escape.
A womb to climb inside.
Hiding from the twisting inevitability,
Of the whisper of my thoughts.
SCREAMING,
But seldom heard
I am weighed down by your scorn.
I will rise and I will be heard.
LISTEN TO ME
But the words are tangled in my mind.
Trapped inside a wounded beast.

You were looking through my recent Google search history weren't you?

That's fine. I predicted you would.

You see what I want you to see;

Those iceberg eyes sink deep into me,
and the anchor is all this misunderstanding.

There was never any trust to begin with.
No real love. At least not like the **** we consume during
our daily binge watching. So drama ensues; the only thing we can count on. It turns the pale skin walls into crimson red curtain calls. Threats to leave fill the midnight air. Someone falls down to their knees, prepared to crawl. There are stains of tears that plague the carpet floor. *****
on the piano tucked in the corner of the living room. It's a coffee-caramel coated body that's seen bitter days. How sweet things were
before the necessary change.

We're still here aren't we?

There are fools that believe it grows on you;

I don't think so.

one just gets used to how awful it all really is.