Warmth. Drowsy. Burrowing into your chest, arms around my back.

And then, like a gunshot, shaking. And tears. And disassociation.

Flashbacks mad fast to that time someone else’s palm brushed my ribs.

To that time it wasn’t exactly done with consent.

And as the casings fly, I’m trying to separate between that time and this time

And figuring out what’s right and what’s lies and what’s my

Past trauma. And your present actions.

And I can feel my fists balling and my heart pounding.

And I know I’m spitting bullets set off by the trigger

That no one meant to touch, but I can’t exactly put it back now.

And when you roll over, depositing me on the mattress

Like a loaded weapon you don’t want to watch go off,

I mean, a fired gun you didn’t want to cause to go off,

And you recoil and shakily ask if I need some space,

You’ll go sleep on the couch, on the floor,

Anywhere that’s not pervaded by her.

And the shakiness gradually dissipates,

And the gunpowdered vision sort of fades,

And I’m watching tears seep out of your eyes,

Because you never wanted to touch that trigger.

And the bullets it caused left some pretty nasty wounds,

Because for a moment I confused you and my assailant.

I ask you not to go. I try to explain it.

I can’t. You don’t really care.

I mean, you do, you’re hurt, but you’re staying anyway.

That’s when I realized that this,

This is so much better than what was.

We call it redeeming experiences,

When we do something that someone else used to hurt us with before.

And when we do it we know we’re poking old scars,

So it might hurt sometimes, but it’s a growing pain,

And we’re not quitters, and we’re not yet done.

So, yeah, maybe you and I’ve got triggers,

But maybe one day love can unload the gun.