traumatized

you tell me I am too

nice

to you,

and I kiss you

gently,

for I will not punish you

for the parts of you that

bleed, or the

corners of your skin that

scream with trauma you

are still learning to

admit,

for I am not,

will not be,

your judgement day.

the vines in my veins

Sometimes I swear I

wrote myself into

oblivion, pen

twisting onto paper and

becoming resounding

screams of

insufficiency.

Sometimes I swear I

wrote myself out

of oblivion, words

becoming threads of

self love and

healing, growing

vines in my veins and

telling me to

climb them.

Perhaps there were

treasures buried in the

dark,

perhaps I wrote myself

there

just to write myself

back.