Trauma takes on a different guise
for everyone. It can groove on you,
trigger you
take you hostage
concave your chest in
ghost you
turn you dark
pull you together
drown you in silence,
or become just another mood.
My trauma comes for breakfast. Unexpectedly and heavily weighing upon me, making me burn toast, cracking pieces of eggshells in the pan, cutting too harshly at what seems like the most fragile tomato; spilling coffee grounds and over sugaring my cup of Joe.
After all that, my appetite
is even more afflicted,
and day drinking seems more suitable.
I’m smoking more.
Escaping reality or responsibility.
Retrieving to solitude,
and it’s all in relation to
my mind replacing yet another abandonment issue,
to something more sexy
like alcoholism.
Felineisms 