trauma
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She has heardevery version of hell. Children whisperingwhat monsters didbehind locked doors. Women apologizingfor surviving. Men swallowing shamebecause someone taught themvictimhoodhad a gender. Still,she sits beside them. Still,she lowers her voiceinstead of raising it. Still,she looks into facesthat have forgottenhow to trust and gives themone thingthe world already stole— choice. There must be nightswhen every…
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There is always a roomwith no windows, a metal table,two chairs,a box of tissuessomeone keeps replacingbecause griefnever runs out. This is wherethe worst thingthat ever happened to youbecomes evidence. Where your shaking handsare asked for details. Where strangerswrite downthe color of the walls,the hour,the smell,the sound you madewhen you realizedno one was coming. And somehowyou…
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The funny manalways knows too much. That is whyhe keeps laughing. He has seenwhat people becomewhen nobody is watching. He knowsinstitutions have teeth. He knowspower rarely admitswhen it is hungry. So he makes jokesabout conspiracies,government files,aliens,politicians, anythingto keep the room laughinglong enoughthat nobody notices how tired his eyes are. Some men wear armor. Some carry…
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Nobody tells youthe dead follow detectives home. Not like ghostsin white dresses. Nothing so mercifully obvious. They followin smaller ways. A photographthat will not leavethe back of your eyelids. A child’s bedroom. A mother’s scream. The soundof somebody askingwhy. They follow youthrough the front door, sit beside your childrenat dinner, crawl beneath the sheetsbetween youand…
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Do you always turnpersonal questionsinto jokes? Only when the truthhas teeth. Only when your handsget too closeto the locked drawerbehind my ribs. I learned youngthat laughtercan change the subjectbefore anyone noticesyou are bleeding. So I became funny. Quick enoughto make you laughbefore you could askwhy I flinched. Sharp enoughto turn concernback on itself. You ask…
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I dream of angelswith clean handsand mouths full of mercy, but morning always finds mewith smoke in my lungsand old ghostssleeping at the foot of my bed. I have begged heavento leave the porch light on,just once,so I could rememberwhat it feels liketo be expected somewhere. Instead,the dark knows my name. It curls beside melike…
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Grief does not always leave; sometimes it grows roots beneath the ribs until healing means learning how to bloom around it.
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The forest becomes a burial ground for old apologies, dead promises, and the version of herself who kept begging people to stay.
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The harm did not come from some abstract darkness; it had a familiar face, a familiar voice, and choices that belonged to you.
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A repeating cycle of hurt, apology, hope, and return finally breaks when she stops waiting for the next apology to save it.
Between Bruises & Blooms 