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Trauma Work



Trauma Work


It’s a long one

the road back to ease

back to not walking past the mirror

with closed eyes

and not flinching

in the eyes

of another.


It’s a long slow walk

a crawl really

coming home

along the gnarled roads

and labyrinths of mind

the booby traps I lay for

myself

unworthiness recited as prayer

and the horrible way

I don’t even realize I’m doing it.


The hard part is not

speeding up

when I catch a glimpse

of that glowing golden front door

forgetting that it’s speed

that got me lost in the first place.


The hard part

is letting myself be found

then lost

then found

and lost again

inching through darkness

on my knees

knowing

this is

just

how

it

is.


It’s a strange thing

watching my body age

and what I thought the advent

of gray hair would mean

while I time travel back

through the bad neighborhoods

of my heart

to find the lost children

and catch their tears.


Humility, humus;

dirt deep knowing

of my own fleeting life

my end

and the impossibility

of finding any other path

than the one I’m on,

wandering

walking

the wounds I thought were me

back

to their waiting

grave.


Trust, I’m told

as if there’s another choice

but to say

yes

yes I will claim this life

lostness and all

hauntings and all

and build a patience so true

a real smile will grow

will have to have to grow

from the debris.



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