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A Silent Doorbell

a-silent-doorbell

Trauma has this way of clapping it’s hands louder than an entire auditorium of applause.

It has this way of sneaking in the back door, and kissing his name onto your mind, because weren’t there good times you still want to remember?

Didn’t he curl your lips to a smile when he said he loved you the first time, and didn’t every time feel like the first time?

Didn’t watching his car pull into your driveway make your shoes lace themselves a little bit faster?

Didn’t his laughter bloom an entire meadow in front of you?

Didn’t his favorite song remind him of the first time you met; curiously afraid, and risking the downward spiral of all the walls you handcrafted around your icy exterior?

Didn’t his sweatshirt become your only form of comfort when his arms weren’t around you?

Didn’t his hand unraveling your button down shirt cause your body to coincidentally fall onto his?

Didn’t his hand hitting the window, and the door handle, and the steering wheel, and the wall, and your thigh, and your shoulder make you crumble?

Don’t you still remember the fingerprint bruises on the back of your leg?

Don’t you still feel his grasp around your wrist?

Don‘t you remember that feeling?

Doesn’t trauma have this funny way of always sneaking in the back door?

Isn’t trauma louder than you remember?

Comments

BRENDA ARLEDGE from Washington Court House on October 06, 2020:

You capture this feelings quite well.

Great write.