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PTSD

by Chantelle Bateman

sadness is the color of my eyes, my heart,

the same shade as distance

and some kind of Miles Davis on repeat.

it's the sound I don't want anyone to hear

creeping out of my pillows in the morning

before the coffee and cigarettes begin-

an avatar, when I'd rather just be myself.

 

my anxiety smells like whatever it is

that makes mean dogs bare their teeth.

it sound like trees falling, like doors slamming,

like a pin drop,

and sometimes, like my mother checking on me again.

it feels like nothing.

 

anger is the color I paint the town with —

blood shot, and sparkling with tiny salt crystals

louder than the sirens they play when I hit the deck,

bitter sweet and never offered cookies.

I'm just a pile of tears needing

to punch you.


 
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