These triggers are mine,
But the trigger finger is hers.
She shoots me in the chest
And rips me to shreds.
In a moment,
I am there again,
Eight years old and shaking,
Praying that this time,
The monster under my bed
Will not be her.
But it always is.
YOU ARE READING
Growing Out My Hair Again
PoetryA poetry book for people recovering from trauma, for survivors, lovers, and people who aren't sure about their place in the world.
