certain times i wish 

they understood me better.

but suddenly i realize 

that for them to totally relate 

would require a sharing 

of my pain. 

considering that, it’s best 

they never fully know. 

i’ll keep my scars to myself. 

their frustration with 

the uncertainty 

cannot be worse 

than them grasping 

the bruised realities of 

awaiting another trigger,

anticipating awkward conversations, 

forgetting, staring, sweating, 

feeling numb, 

not recalling a name, 

craving a cave of isolation while 

fearing that same cave, 

needing to hide while 

needing to not be alone, 

eyes not seeing clearly, 

feet not walking comfortably, 

ears hearing what no one else 

can hear. 

no. i’ll not wish the trauma 

on her or him or them. 

they endure their own wars. 

they contain their own scars. 

that’s already too much. 

i’ll hold my horror here, 

and tell them just enough 

as, and if, i remember it.