Unsolved Equaitions
|
Alisia Sanchez
|
content note: living with trauma
|
Nobody talks
about the aftermath,
when you’ve made it out
safely
but there are still
cracks
in the window,
broken egg shells
on the floor,
an evil intention
behind every passing
shadow,
pavement: unsafe.
How you flinch
when a bush
rustles
in the breeze
and freeze
when a voice
sounds too close,
too familiar,
unsettling.
Strangers want to hurt you,
to kill you,
trudging along: tiring.
People only see layered
bandaids,
they don’t know
the depth
of each cut,
besides, would you
want them to?
The old perfume
you used to love
smells
like danger now,
memories: torture.
How every day
is driving in circles
just to end up
right where
you left off.
Every pitiful,
“You’re so strong,”
stings worse
than the last,
worse than the startling
wind biting
at your sour face,
still, drifting away: too easy.
The show is over,
be happy,
you’re no longer
some man’s puppet.
It’s spring,
time to bloom,
to dust off
and decorate the shelves,
but they are already
filled
with unlabeled boxes,
bottles of unprocessed
tears,
yet crying: useless.
How there is nowhere
left to scream
and no face
that recognizes
your own,
not even the one
in the mirror.
So what is there left
to do but keep
talking: (to yourself?)
about the aftermath,
when you’ve made it out
safely
but there are still
cracks
in the window,
broken egg shells
on the floor,
an evil intention
behind every passing
shadow,
pavement: unsafe.
How you flinch
when a bush
rustles
in the breeze
and freeze
when a voice
sounds too close,
too familiar,
unsettling.
Strangers want to hurt you,
to kill you,
trudging along: tiring.
People only see layered
bandaids,
they don’t know
the depth
of each cut,
besides, would you
want them to?
The old perfume
you used to love
smells
like danger now,
memories: torture.
How every day
is driving in circles
just to end up
right where
you left off.
Every pitiful,
“You’re so strong,”
stings worse
than the last,
worse than the startling
wind biting
at your sour face,
still, drifting away: too easy.
The show is over,
be happy,
you’re no longer
some man’s puppet.
It’s spring,
time to bloom,
to dust off
and decorate the shelves,
but they are already
filled
with unlabeled boxes,
bottles of unprocessed
tears,
yet crying: useless.
How there is nowhere
left to scream
and no face
that recognizes
your own,
not even the one
in the mirror.
So what is there left
to do but keep
talking: (to yourself?)
Alisia (Allie) Sanchez is a student at Cal Poly Humboldt studying English. Originally from Humboldt County, she is heavily inspired by her love of nature and community. Allie has been published in Spectrum, The Curious Nothing, and the PVLD Anthology. She hopes to continue honing her craft and learning from those around her.
