Poetry, Trauma

Words to Places; Scents to Memories

I fall into a deep slumber

filled with the lost ember

of a version of myself

previously held aloft

in a world so dear to me.


My body, an object in the eyes

I gazed into hoping to see some type

of emotion, some type of humanity.

Truly, a nightmare; a haunting.

Ghosts of past selves resurfacing.


My own lack of self worth,

a confusion rooted deep in my childhood.

I stand, unclothed, in front of a mirror.

I watch, as my body changes. More

unfamiliar now than it ever was.


I feel pain now, processing trauma.

I now know that the places I’ve been touched,

by those I was told to trust,

were inappropriate. They are mine.

They trespassed on lands owned by me.


These things happened early in my life,

vivid, innocent, memories surround them

in the day: The night is different. The night

brings subconscious memory and hatred.

I hurt at night. I feel exposed at night.


Now, in my adult life, I trust a man.

He asks if he can touch me, and gently,

he holds me through the night. He listens

thought horrific stories, and values my mind.

He doesn’t think I’m broken.


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