Russian Dolls

M y Russian doll trauma shelf

It sits in the corner of my life. Always there but I’m used to it.

Like the profile of my nose.

Sometimes I walk over to the shelf. Pick up a doll and unpack the layers.

Trying not to think about Shrek but yes, like onions.

That’s the thing about trauma. There’s always something underneath. Another form, another trigger, another thing that underlies it.

The other night a friend of mine put me in a head lock

I don’t know why but he was wasted and way, way stronger than me.

I had to shove him off and close my car door on him. I kept asking him to leave with which he responded to

With a kiss on my car window.

Hot and slobbery and honestly a car wreck to watch

Then I was driving and crying and thinking about the desert.

I was two cities away from where I was going.

Driving aimlessly.

Living it.

Vividly.

In my mind.

Layers.