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A Portrait of My Trauma

by Becky Curl about a year ago in sad poetry
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My trauma looks like a tall man with eyes that could pierce right through you.

A Portrait of My Trauma
Photo by Tyler Delgado on Unsplash

My trauma looks like a tall man with eyes that could pierce right through you.

My trauma looks like a bottle of wine I never wanted to be empty.

My trauma looks like disgust in your mirror after midnight.

My trauma looks like a mansion where all of my dreams go to die.

My trauma looks like crying at your dinner table.

My trauma sounds like uncomfortable laughter at the worst times because I didn’t know what else to do.

My trauma smells like alcohol on your breath while you were “sober.”

My trauma looks like another text left undelivered because you blocked me. Again.

My trauma sounds like screaming on the night you forced me to tell you the truth about something that was never even your business to know.

My trauma sounds like your slurred speech on a Sunday afternoon in April 2014.

My trauma looks like my bedroom in Webster Groves, Missouri.

My trauma looks like the comforter I am sitting on right now.

My trauma looks like the Days Inn on Diversey.

My trauma looks like the careful planning of a life I never wanted in the first place.

My trauma looks like panic attacks on New Year’s Eve.

My trauma feels like I am choking.

My trauma feels like your hands pulling my hair.

My trauma looks like you handing me a $100 bill while my cheeks burn from the shame of knowing that you will always see me as less than.

My trauma is you.

sad poetry

About the author

Becky Curl

Freelance Writer. Freelance Make-Up Artist. Teacher. Wig & Make-Up Designer. Coffee, dogs & pop-punk are my life.

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