kindling
sometimes,
out of nowhere
a quiet rage in me burns
scorching everything in its path
my buried memories,
like kindling,
only fuel the quiet, bubbling rage
as i watch
paralyzed once more
and the flashbacks to nightmares’ past,
like gasoline,
engulf everything as it all goes up in a blaze —
after blaze,
after blaze,
after blaze,
after blaze
suddenly,
i am no longer an adult
haunted by a lifetime of traumas
instead,
i am once again
the scared little girl
trying her best to survive
as she wonders what on earth she did wrong
to deserve the pain inflicted on her
how could not one person see?
not a single one of them saw the signs
the many,
many,
many,
many
signs
the crying
the screaming
the bed-wetting
the begging
the fear
the mistrust
the anxiety
the desperation
it was all there, plain as can be
how could they have not seen?
HOW COULD NOT ONE OF THEM SEEN?
after all,
every last one of them are survivors too,
having endured their own share of fires
with more than enough battle scars leftover
to last several lifetimes
but maybe that’s why they didn’t see
maybe they didn’t want to
maybe they didn’t completely exorcize
the ghosts of their trauma-loaded pasts
maybe they were still haunted
maybe they didn’t want to believe
that someone in their midst
was capable of such violence & betrayal
maybe it was easier to pretend & ignore
than face the burn marks & lurking pyros
maybe
but when it all quiets down
and everything starts to cool,
i see what remains —
scattered ashes & scars
then through wet tears & clenched fists,
i can’t help but wonder
“did the scared little girl ever even have a chance?”
or was she,
like the rest,
just…
k i n d l i n g
