The Trauma.

Everything about this night
is wrong: the heat of autumn,
the dead branches in the lawn,
the way cigarettes remember
my lips and their deviations.

I step in the shower once
the house is quiet and the
ghosts have settled.
The steam clings to my skin
and I think "danger, danger"
but don't turn the knob.
I use too much of a fragrance
that holds memories of winter,
vanilla, coconut, and plum
and all the attempts at
making myself pleasant,
making myself want to be
touched, desired even.
The last time I wore it,
I was with him, a nameless
face. At the time, I thought
consent was limbs moving
forward when my spirit wasn't
willing and didn't know how to
translate the message.
I feigned interest, despite
every skeleton in my body
screaming, screeching,
to be left alone.

I never called him again,
and though the years have
been gentle, teaching me
how to forgive myself,
I sabotage any feelings
of triumph.

I wash myself, repeatedly,
until no dirt is discernible,
but trauma can't be fooled
into dissipating so easily.