Flashbacks. Flesh for the pot and the sun overwhelms me. Reliving the trauma over and over. The whirlwind and the storm. Hey God, do you remember last summer? The time you held me down, your beard still tickles my chin. Bad dreams. He has gathered prisoners like sand. Frightening thoughts; bodies without number and all the wine is gone. I saw your reflection in the window so I put my sunglasses on, “You look ridiculous.” A man walked up to me on the street the other day and he said, “Take my dog.” So I took him and I named him God, to remind me of the God who left me for another, you know who you are. Tell me again how you fell in love with her heartbeat and how she held you while you were sleeping, you make me sick. Feeling emotionally numb, I took God to the park. I took care of him, I fed him, I played with him. I loved him. And then I lost interest in activities, as I usually do, and he left me pillaged, plundered, and stripped, like Gods usually do. “What a ruin she has become.” So I started going out at night, looking to get into something. Being easily startled, I began looking for a reason to stop believing in such things; maybe I should shave my head and worship rocks. I stopped sleeping. Feeling tense, I let my feet lead me to a convenient store where I saw a man, struggling with his hands full, he dropped his carton of milk and it spills onto the sidewalk. I wished God were there to help me lick up the spilt milk but I never found him.

Taylor Louise Roegner is an undergraduate writer at West Virginia University. She is currently studying Creative Writing and Music Composition.

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1 Response to PTSD

  1. Pingback: PTSD | My BlogThe Philosopher's blog.

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