Up this road just a few miles more is where I lived my worst memories. Gill. That’s the name of the town. Lots of cows, brooks and a river. An editor is trying to help me push forward with my story. He’s waiting for my adjustments. Every time I open it, I’m triggered. I’ve updated nothing. Maybe I should drive to this spot, walk a few miles. Maybe that’ll unlock my leash. That’s the thing about severe childhood trauma. You can lock it away, compartmentalize, as always, but when it comes down to it it’s as alive as it always was. Fight or Flight. I chose to fight. I’m stuck on FIGHT. Up that road, just a little ways, holds some of my best memories. Mother. Brothers. Life.
When I watch my thoughts
they come out crooked.
They crawl on my forehead
and on my back.
I don’t like all of them.
I flick some off like flees.
But, being much like flees, some jump
and I miss. They land on my feet.
I feel them crack and split as I walk.
My thoughts are tied into a bundle of hands holding cries that never mattered because I don’t know them. She stepped into a puddle. The water was mixed with fine particles of dust; the leaves fell so nicely from the sky she wanted everything about them, while the sun kept repeating that the puddle was there.
It’s hard keeping memories. They don’t always like us and sometimes
they are alive and know they are and when we don’t let them be they
then decide they’ll not let us be, so we twist and turn them around trying
to make them be what we needed them to be from the very beginning.