Are some things better left buried
Sandy covered secrets
Red welts masked as rashes
Flinching PSTD trauma from past ****
It’s not golden dablooms
Under the moon
It’s bruises from ill-uses
Suspicious glances
Struggling to ever trust again
Never leaving the house
Never letting new people in
Never finding a healthy balance
Blaming yourself
For the insanity of someone else
And the best thing to ever come out
Of it is the poetry you write about
You know, all that buried stuff