Dear PTSD,

 

I cannot sleep with you.

 

I know I told you

that you could dwell here,

in me

 

and I would keep you hidden,

like a safe little secret.

I would never tell anyone.

 

I captured the secret

that brought you,

between my lips,

and I swallowed the pain

you shot through my body

when I first met you.

 

You told me you could make me numb,

whispered that you were the first

and last step to recovery,

and I believed you.

 

At first, you were welcoming.

You made me not cry,

made me able to hide.

 

I loved you for that.

 

But you grew vicious,

and you grew talons

 

And you clawed beneath my skin,

And ripped open flesh and anxiety.

 

You gave me depression,

 

 

gave me emptiness.

 

 

You secluded me,

built sharp wire walls

between me and my friends

and chained me to your body.

 

I forgot how to laugh,

but you told me that

you would laugh for me

 

You had fun watching me break,

didn’t you?

 

You slept with me for too long,

And you breathed nightmares

into my mind.

 

You haunted me with flashbacks and

when I couldn’t sleep,

you whipped me into believing

that it was my fault.

 

I cannot sleep with you

Because you are poisoning me

With every touch.

 

PTSD,

I’ve found someone better

to sleep with.

 

His name is Hope,

And he was buried in the eyes

of a boy I forgot I knew.

 

So take your depression

and your anxiety.

 

I’ll keep the memories.

I’ll keep the bed.

I’ll keep my sleep.

 

Your survivor,

Lily