dear trauma

am I supposed to get used to you?
am I supposed to embrace you?
are you like nettles -- if I grasp you tight in my fists, will you never sting me?

{I will squeeze the life out of you}

I was minding my own business,
preoccupied with blackbirds and coffee and my curls,
my shyness and my vanity,
the strange dreams I had this morning
and then you turned up, turned my mind
to someonethingtime not worth a breath, much less
one of anyone's precious thoughts.

I don't have time for this.
I don't have the strength for this,
   I'd love to say:
      but I am here, writing --
      oh, I do have the strength.

I heart it echoing in the halls of my brain:
"role call!
amygdala?
      OVERLOADED
hypothalamus?
      RECEIVING
adrenaline?
      CHECK
cortisol?
      CHECK
physical response?
      PRIMED AND READY"

but I have a secret weapon:
gritted teeth, fury siphoned into a blue stone,
      witchwild eyes glaring outwards, clenched fists full of twig fingers,
            sheer. bloody. determination.

            I do not kowtow to tyrants.

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