And ‘panic’ doesn't nearly describe:
Pure oxygen turning sour in lungs,
Meals threatening a return from the stomach,
Twitchy fingers and wobbly legs,
Soreness of a tense body,
Laughs-turned-sobs,
Eyes adorned with purple rings,
A destructive adrenaline that welcomes blood.

The red bag has been replaced (just as I was).
No longer do my weapons sit alongside your arrowheads of safety and legitimate love.
A black casket is their new home, shiny and perfectly angled.
It hides in the farthest reaches of a drawer,
beckoning my hand to let the metal topple out of its dark casing.
Three generations of proving that I’m alive,
that I’m capable of feeling something other than
the feet of someone on top of me or the sting of words meant to be innocent.

And yes, I am stronger than I once was.
But I’m stronger in a different way, in a different sense of the word.
Yes, I am weaker in spirit and weaker in a way that makes
daily thoughts into nightmares.
But I am stronger in body.
I am ready for the war this time, and I swear to Orion that I won’t let
my lack of muscle mass or the words ‘replaced’ and ‘forgotten’
etched across my thighs and hip bones hold me back from fighting.
I will throw punches until my arms lay limp and
I will kick until my feet are bleeding and my toes are broken.