TRAUMA
Haunted house. Built on a graveyard of doom & tragedy.
Tall, in disarray, with high walls & darkness as a roof over it.
The smell of old wood rushing to greet you,
creaking weak doors, hooting calls of owls,
& the feeling of lacy cobwebs tickling your skin.
I live here.
This is where I bury myself without a wooden box,
& I resurrect every day despite all the reasons I have not to.
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Its rooms all had tapestries of depression & penury hanging around,
reducing anyone who enters to skeletons & bones.
Artefacts of heartbreaks, lust, alcoholism & disappointments lay on the floor,
with reckless abandon. On its walls, a painting
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of a garage filled with dead dry leaves & a yellow bus called “One Chance”;
I recall when that bus swallowed me up &
spat me out into the welcoming hands of the asphalt & concrete of the Ogudu highway,
who petted me with bruises and a head injury.
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This house must think itself so great.
The way it scares me into darkness & keeps me there,
the way it calls itself my name & I let it keep it.
Take a walk inside & see what it is like to walk into a nightmare;
take a walk around & see how rich the soils are,
see how I plant reality in a pot as my front door flower,
see how I’m trying to grow myself a heart
from the same sands I buried my father. & somehow, it works.
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My trauma is a haunted house that I go home to every day,
at Block PTSD
