When Trauma Comes Knocking

I walk these streets, their corners still sharp with memory. The trees lean in as if they remember, whispering stories I tried to forget.

I walk these streets,

their corners still sharp with memory.

The trees lean in as if they remember,

whispering stories I tried to forget—

the cracks in the pavement

trace the lines of my younger self.

Every step lands heavier,

like the ground knows

what I buried here:

a voice muffled,

a scream swallowed whole,

a child's shadow pinned beneath

the weight of silence.

The houses blink with the same tired eyes.

That window, still watching,

that door, still locked.

Even the air clings too tightly,

thick with the ghosts

of words unsaid,

hands that didn’t hold me,

hands that held too much.

I see her there—

the girl I was,

all frayed edges and fists clenched tight.

She walks beside me,

her gaze darting between the past and my face.

She wants to know if we made it out alive.

But the streets answer first:

with the crunch of dead leaves,

the echo of a slammed door,

the faint scent of alcohol on the wind.

They hum the old hymn of survival,

but it’s a dirge.

Trauma doesn’t knock gently.

It barges in,

kicks the door wide open,

and sits at my feet like an unwanted dog,

panting, waiting.

I keep walking.

What else can I do?

I tell her—

that girl with the wide, searching eyes—

that I’ve learned to carry it.

That the weight feels lighter now,

even if the streets never changed.

But the truth?

Sometimes I still stop,

let the air wrap around my throat,

let the past speak,

and let myself listen.