It’s not as easy as being Something That Happened to You, a package you opened once.

You will wake up in a new ZIP code, have to wander your way home, carry a few of the things you love to this new place you live in now.

& so you buy throw pillows. You put up twinkle lights and have a big celebration, point at the open windows and tell everyone who has ever seen you crying,

look,

look how I have not caged myself, look what I have made out of two paint buckets and the blessing of my still-here body,

but, of course, trauma leans into the bar cart. Spills a drink on the new rug. Breaks off the door handle on his way out.

Trauma sends you letters, without warning, for the rest of your life, usually disguised as something else—