You do not know my story.
Do not dare to soften my reality to fit your comfortable limited view.
An image resides in my head. I have never been able to shake it.
It is indelible.
As a child silence was my haven. I learned to be quiet, talk quiet, walk quiet
How do I explain the limits that a child places on themselves when faced with a certainty of violence?
With two words you have unmade me. All my armor is stripped away, my defenses lay at my feet.
As a child my task was to conform myself to my confinement.
Just is a word used to minimize and limit. It saps verbs of their agency.
You feel it, the first tug pulling you down. What was the trigger? A word? A thought?
“You won’t get it.”
That was my father’s response when I told him I was among the finalists for the Morehead Scholarship
How do you explain a condition that can’t be seen?
There are moments recovering from trauma where your mind connects two unrelated things.
That day, this day, lives in my mind.
The past echoes forward and troubles the present.