origin
a poem
this is to all my sisters
who bled before
it was their time
trauma is the signature of
your past
your weakest memory shows
a blue room
where the first man held your small
frame then tried to take you
he didn’t care that you were six
you ran and you never told anyone
swallowed the key to that door
like it never happened
you live with it like you’re getting
ready for the next ones
10 years later, you’re at a small supermarket
two male attendants walk up to you
they try to corner you then laugh
at your shaky hands and seized breath
“what’s wrong with you?”
they don’t. know their small play
just caused a panic attack
you leave the supermarket
with your heart in your throat
sometimes when you’re alone
you think about why it happened to you
what exactly did i do
you blame yourself
then hate your body for causing you grief
you want to abandon this skin…
