Dog
To me,
my trauma is
a dog on a leash.
It found me one day,
but I don’t remember exactly when.
And, sometimes,
I go looking for it
when it breaks through the fence
and tears up someone else’s yard.
I’ve taken classes
and read books about
my trauma.
My trauma, well,
it is well-behaved,
except when it isn’t
and I remember
my trauma
is not the leash
but is the animal
that chose me.
My trauma has accidentally bitten people,
usually when it plays too hard
or forgets how sharp teeth can be.
My trauma has a habit
of following me around,
probably because I’ve taken good care of it.
Except when I don’t,
and, then, my trauma finds a way
to get my attention
by any means necessary.
Then again,
sometimes,
I think my trauma has not-so-accidentally bitten people.
I think it wanted to protect me,
but I can only guess
at its intentions.
I wouldn’t want people to think I allow my trauma
to be violent
without good intentions,
but, to be honest,
I don’t know if that matters
when it’s the animal
that chose me.
I could tell you so many stories
about the way my trauma has changed my life.
How sometimes I don’t sleep in
or I break the rules
and let it in my bed with me,
but, really, it all goes to say:
trauma is a dog
on a leash
to me.
--f.d.v.
