Still Trapped.

There is no way to cleanse you from my blood; the DNA that spreads through me, entangled in a history of you and us and insanity, is permanently tattooed on my life like the ink in my skin that reminds me, each day, to move on.

I scrub myself red and raw, crying to empty as much of you from my body as I can. Hot showers leave foggy mirrors; shaking hands wipe the veil away as I pray that those eyes staring back at me will, this time, be my own.

But they are still yours, glaring at me with such intensity that I am brought to my knees and, as the child I once was, am trapped beneath an onslaught of words reminding infant me that I will never be what it is you need. Locked in a closet, now my own thoughts, praying for release and hoping that, one day, I’ll earn my keep.

A child knocks once, then twice, asking why mommy is taking so long- then you are gone. I am brought back to my home, mid-twenty years old, wrapped in a towel and huddled on the ground. The moment is lost just as it was found.



I had a friend once tell me that I didn’t know anything about PTSD. All it taught me was that I cover my scars well, and not to trust some friends with my history.

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