The unwillingness to cut my fingernails
Lest I be without a weapon.
Expecting everyone to hurt me
With every passing second.
Unbridled rage when someone is flippant about the two ton metal monster they command with the twist of a wheel.
Catastrophic thought is
The absolute assurance that someone is dead
When they don’t pick up the phone.
PTSD is not
Being careless with emotions; immature and loud
Over-sensitivity because of insecurity
Or disliking certain sounds
Post traumatic stress is
Sweating through your decaying dreams
Waking to silent, dehydrated screams
Covered in despair, certain the lives in your sleep would still be out there
If not for your own failure.
The inability to face that room
The panic that comes over you
When a movement doesn’t belong; someone’s behavior is jarring or
It’s bracing for blows that may never come
After so many years of not being ready and getting knocked down
You can’t bear the possibility
Of another blindside,
And torment, crime
And blood and fear and trauma
All. The. Time.