ptsd1

I’ve come back,

lighter,

without the shame,

to collect the remains

of who I once was…

Like a Cashew,

out from its’ poisonous shell.

Can still taste the murder

of some unsuspecting victim,

 

that just liked nuts.

Or was that myself…

Anyhow,

it’s not about tragedy

that saves anyone,

but the monsters you forget—

When the sun shines unexpectedly,

on a Monday.

Your steady, even steps,

merge,

into the same shit

as yesterday…

Carry you more optimistically,

in direct conflict with

despair.

Everything is mysteriously

lenient,

ladylike.

The curtains,

how they drape,

perfectly:

A female ghost’s silhouette.

Yes,

the world, today, is a china shop.

A collection of all yesterday’s

teacups—

The vines,

delicate rims,

curved-handle for nuzzling

a hooked-finger.

 

The soft whispers of conversation,

refined,

with each sip…

Please and thank you,

take me about movement,

oh-so-precise and carefully,

that I should not remember

but remain oblivious,

to all that seeks to remind…

 

the self-destroyer.

The heavy pieces of burden,

a story told so well:

Fear, caution, control,

word,

and action,

stifles the ability to grow beyond its’ hold,

for your own sake…

To die the consequences daily.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte © 2015 All Rights Reserved

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