Each memory I had in my twenties
opened my chest
and searched for what still felt alive—
like it knew where to stab.
All my screams
went unnoticed.
Cuffed trauma found its key,
unleashed the worst,
and devoured my memories.
Should I thank it
or cry—
for eating
what was eating me?
I will never know
until the last hope dies,
until my screams
are noticed.
All that I am feeling is—
a hyphen.