From Being A Kid

Tiny pieces of cracked glass.

Every breath threatens to shatter these buried fibers even further.

Splinters leaving slivers of loneliness lodged in my chest.

Feeling anything too deeply threatens to deface the brittle layers of skin that imprison my jagged shrapnel.

Lacerations from being a kid.

Inside me a minefield of memories, triggers, and souvenirs.

Like inherited sadness and panic. Like a stomach that can’t unclench. Like a throat that chokes on its own. A body that shudders and struggles under the weight of a girl with scissors pressed to her skin who is now a woman living with scars, silence, and untraceable deep sighs.

I don’t want to talk about it. I didn’t then and I don’t want to now. That’s what made me good, he said.

I guess it feels better having a body stuffed with secrets than a body weakened by emptiness.

My psychiatrist’s office
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