Trauma, the Poet

If I could make my trauma
write its own poem,
it would be a viper
with hissing (sssstupid)
and hushing (bitchsshhhh)
and fangs made of hard word ends
(fat shit).
It would be a viper.

Or a constrictor

squeezing my chest,

aching my bones,

knotting my stomach

so I can't eat.

Writhing and twisting my words,

turning me wrong.

It would definitely be a constrictor.

But this is Michigan.

It's probably a blue racer.

It won't bite hard

but it chases me,

keeps me running,

always wary

waiting

wondering

what will happen

when it catches me?

It's totally a blue racer.

Trouble is,

snakes don't have hands.

Their words stay in their heads

and they can't write poems.

Neither can trauma.

Lucky me.