Ever since I was able to fathom what words were
I was reaching for pencils and paper 
which seemed to be begging, screaming, longing
for me to tell stories. 

​

Stories of brown skinned women
in made up lands
riding in a horse drawn carriage 
with their Prince Charming.

​

Ever since I was able to fathom what reality was
I was reaching for pens and paper
begging, screaming, longing, 
for those stories to become true.  

Stories of a life full of happiness
and satisfaction with the life
that seemed to have been written
by someone other than myself. 
 

Trauma is like
an old box full
of memories
that’s only pulled out
in times
where it’s either 
needed 
or mistakenly found
while looking for
other things—happier memories. 
But like when
it’s time to move
we’re forced
to go through these boxes
to make way
for new things.
And like with trauma,
we have to
go through it
and examine it
in order to make way
for the happier memories.