I speak about my trauma often
not out of a want to be pitied
or attention. (Everything inside of me wishes
to be invisible.)

But,
I speak about my trauma because,
like a white water river–
my thoughts, feelings, and memories
come flashing down,
and I am engulfed
in flames.

My pen grounds me.
It is the only way for me to see
I am burning.

I wish to longer speak about it, too.
I wish to be “normal”.
I wish to just “get over it”, (like I am expected).

But my body
will not let me forget,
even if I wish
to forgive.

The moon has come out tonight—
full and brilliant, a hushed white.

I sip persimmon tea underneath
the Japanese maple tree.

Closing my eyes, the summer breeze
ripples through me.

The koi swim to and fro—
like red ticks on cement,
watch how they dance and go.

I think of years gone by,
the times that passed too slow—
those moments I wish I froze.

The tea is cooling between my wrinkled fingers.

Of memories gone past,
far too fast—
even,
my breath deems too long
to linger.