finding my voice
i swore i would stop writing about trauma.
stop giving it the power
to live on in my words.
stop letting it crawl through
the tunnels of my metaphors,
stepping into the harsh light
of scrutiny and interpretation.
some days, i am more whole
than others. i do not think
about how i have gotten here.
on these days, it is easy
to keep my promises.
laugh away the ghosts
of the past.
these are the days i can
fantasize about writing a
poetry collection
that does not make someone
grimace with pity,
or worse,
understanding.
these are the days i look
upon the sunsets with
quiet fear.
praying that the next day
lives up to this one.
some days, i wake up
to water on my face.
i look up, as though
it is just dew that kisses
my cheeks, pearling
along each eyelash.
these days, all i can think
about is writing.
getting these thoughts
out of my system,
where they churn dangerously,
over and over.
i take my trauma,
force it into submission.
cloak it in the words i see fit,
making up for the lack of control.
reclaiming the nights and days,
spitting bitter truth
into the forgiving arms of
verse and rhythm.
i swore i would stop writing about trauma.
but that is all i know to do.
i have no other place for it in my life.
outside the confines of my poems,
it talks louder than i do,
and it is a better muse than
enemy anyway.