316 – PTSD

This is not
An exit.

Sweat pours slowly
To the dry soil,
Blood-red blooms sprout
From every crack.

This is not
An exit.

Memories of pain
Never really felt,
Waking fear of things
That never happened.

This is not
An exit.

A thousand paper cuts
Of homeopathic trauma,
Drip-fed reminders
Puncturing our souls.

This is not
An exit.

High-octane demons
Being burned for fuel,
A body pushed up
To the failure point.

This is not
An exit.

Crashing thru a wall
Of effort and exhaustion,
A pile of aching limbs
And screaming joints.

Yes,
this is not an exit,

But it’s the closest thing
To healing…

For now.