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emerging

at the crossroads

and the call
beckons, towards

while the alarm
pulses, away away

______________________

I'm starting to emerge from the processing I've been doing over the past two months.

(Shit. Has it really been two months? Yes, it has. A little over. Wow.)

Shit happens, life goes on. That's the way trauma works. Grief, too. It feels absolutely shocking, but that's what it is. Life doesn't stop happening, even after the worst thing happens.

You get a gun shoved in your face, you have to deal with it. And unless you tell other people, they would never know. It's a very odd thing. You'd think trauma and grief would be written on our bodies, but it isn't, unless we wear a shirt or get some kind of commemorative tattoo.

(I'm actually considering a tattoo. As a way to remind myself: never again.)

The trauma of early July wasn't as linear as a gun pointed at my face, it was much more complex and ephiphanial (I still love making words up). And I a…

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