Trauma Didn’t Scream

I know the roots of my family

Are marked with scars

From a demonic thirst,

Drenched with boiled realities.

I know the best of our twisted humor,

And the jackson-polick splashing of rage.

I know being victim and witness affected me.

I can tell at least 9 therapists,

And read their reactions,

As though they were reading a book a book horrors.

I grow and progress carrying my baggage,

Forgetting that some traumas don’t two-step or tap,

Some move throughout existence

As a silent ballet.

Published by sickybeat

I am a writer with an extremely active imagination. I love learning answers to questions and what makes everything and everyone tick. I am a "Unique case, medically" if nothing else. I am flawed in my extreme aversion to failure (even when "success" isn't good for me,) but have come a long way in ditching the perfectionist mindset. I like people whose default setting toward others is compassion, an open mind, and honesty

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