Trauma doesn’t dress in neon.
It doesn’t light up bright as a sunrise
and stand screeching with a megaphone in the street.
Trauma asks for a reservation,
parks at the cradle base of your skull,
and traces soft fingertips across the love lines on your palm.
Trauma is the sound of a drill skidding as a screw strips.
It is a soapy aftertaste in your mouth.
It is the silver halo of light from a TV as your child clings to your neck in their sleep.
It hovers,
bumble bee drone
in your ear.
Trauma is a lace skirt getting caught on every cabinet knob in the house
and dragging you to a halt.
© Laura A. Lord, 2020
Thank you MindLoveMisery for your prompt.
15 responses to “Trauma Doesn’t Dress in Neon”
Love this Laura. Original and yet poignant description.
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Thank you very much
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My pleasure.
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Such a bloody great piece of writing
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Thank you
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Wow. Your words are beautiful and your painfully beautiful images never fail to strike me. I feel like you’re in my head and I think that’s what good writing is, right? I’m new here, but I look forward to reading much more!!
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Thank you! I’m glad you found a connection here. You certainly aren’t alone in those feelings.
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You write so well!! As if you have been in close proximity of the people who have gone through all your poems’ feeling and experience. This I would say is experience, even if not yours, but not only imagination. They can’t be. They are so perfect.
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Thank you. I’d love to say it was simply imagination, but these are very much my own therapy for my own experience.
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You serve justice to the English language such strong imagery ♥️♥️
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Wow! Just loved it.
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This is absolutely amazing
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Thank you very much.
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I liked your take on trauma. It is indeed a quiet drip-drip-drip on ones psyche.
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Thank you!
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