Organized

My traumas

are color-coded

My traumas

are alphabetized

and stacked into neat little piles.

Tucked away in clear drawers,

with sharpied labels.

At night,

my brain gets up and walks away,

rummaging,

searching.

"How about this one?"

it asks, hovering over me like a scared child

who ran from the thunder in their room,

as I turn away,

a pillow as my only shield

against the things I'd like to forget.