The Weight of Trauma / Anger

I don't want to carry this with me anymore


I want my body to die and take this trauma with it


Bury us in a shallow grave to rot away,

Until mold and insects and scavengers

Pry me from it piece by piece

And carry me far away until I am no longer even here


No thighs to be pried apart by digging fingernails


No terror spreading hot within me if my flesh is cold and dampened by soil


No one can ever touch me again if I am not here anymore


But I am still here and I can't convince my body that he is not here and


Anymore of this, and I might lose what is left of my mind


And I won't have control anymore

I won't have control

I never had control


Never had a choice


Never had a voice


But I do now.

And someday this earth will take this body back,

Let her creatures scatter me for miles,

Recycle my scar tissue into something growing, and new, and good



For now this body still carries my weight

But this trauma is not mine alone

The overlooked symptom of a disease

A cancer;

Persistent and quiet

It chameleons its way into our homes

And smiles a friendly smile,

And holds the door open as it follows us in


It's the sword wielded by self-appointed monarchs

Who feel powerful only when we are bleeding at their feet.

Too burdened to stand up straight, 

Too hoarse to demand their attention

And force them to look us in the eye


I wonder if he could bear to see his own reflection there in mine

I wonder if he'd want to take this trauma back?

Or maybe he'd only see himself,

Just blink and look away.

Maybe nothing would change at all


But if I had the chance to protect someone else,

No matter how slim,

I would brandish myself as a weapon,

Use this trauma as a shield,

And with every last bit of strength I had

Turn these razor shards back on the ones who left me broken.


If it would mean that someone else could walk away unscathed,

I would be glad to call this trauma mine.


So even if my whole body shakes,

Even if I feel the earth collapse around my feet,

Even if it means digging up my own corpse

And making room for two in this grave,

So that another small patch of grass might go undisturbed


Then I will turn my fingernails into trowels,

Ignite my lungs with rage


And I'm coming for every motherfucker who dares

To carve their own name into anther person's bones


And even if the weight of my own screams

Turn this body into dust,

I will not be silent



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