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.