Trauma is not drama. Trauma is pain. And pain is exactly what we, as humans, strive to feel least and give just the same.
My hands hurt typing this. Is it my hands, though? Or my heart? I don’t know, but in truth, I really do. I know. I have known. And now I am running out of ways to avoid the knowing.
Wake up and find your flowers, even if those flowers aren’t flowers.
I want you to always wish you just fucking said sorry. But I still want you to have the guts to say it to the next person you hurt and then again to the person after that.
I warn them about the chaos and the turbulence. I tell them about the emotions and the past. I recount all of the ways I embody a soul too difficult to handle.
Everything has its time and time always has its place.
Know that I’ll sit with you while you unpack, whether I am here to stay or just here to simply rub your back. Know that I know it is not easy just laying the luggage on the floor.
Your light still fucking blinds me. But guess what? I’ll never pretend it’s not there.