i don’t know how to chase memory without tripping on it.
it’s always too close — i can’t remember
when it happened in my language, only certain shards penetrate
my skin.
you blocked out what was happening
when you were a child, one therapist told me.
denial kept you alive for a long time, and it takes effort
to unlearn that coping skill.
i’m trying to be gentle with myself, but
what if i never believe my body when
it tells me what happened?
in every flinch, in every
phantom strain.
red skin, swollen and bleeding,
how it felt to dissociate
from the sting for the first time.
i remember in dreams
and in my scars. sometimes
it feels like i’m not strong
enough, even as an adult, to hold everything i couldn’t
as a child.
i can remember when it happened, it’s just
in another language. i translate in these poems,
piece the shards together and try to make something
beautiful, let myself see my reflection in them.
i can only trace the scars and see
where my body wanted me to live.
i can only remember and try to find myself in the memories.
i can only hold myself as i wake from each nightmare,
but maybe i’ll learn someday that it’s enough.
Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash
