He is gone, and won’t hurt you again.

But fear runs through your mind in

refrain.

Most certainly dear,

I promise you clear,

That you’re done, that you’re done, that

you’re done.

No matter my promise, I know you still

fear.

That you jolt from your sleep from his rage.

Give it time, my sweet heart-it will sort

itself out.

Your heart will cleanse him from your

veins.

——————————————————————

That was a poem I wrote a very long time ago, in response to being diagnosed with PTSD. I’ve come to terms about a lot of things, and suddenly I’m foolishly brave again-like I was at age 14, when he found me and started what I now fondly call “the training”.

So, I’ve decided it’s time to stop staying silent, and be loud.

Buckle up.