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.