By Noa Livernois
you spend years of your life this way,
trying to make your body anything other than a body.
instead, perhaps, a cluttered house.
furniture cannot experience flashback,
an armchair has never known breathing
and so cannot misplace its breath.
trauma can only exist inside mind or musculature;
the parasite demands a living host.
so you un-become, learn inanimate,
you dissect and deconstruct until
all of the human is gone from you.
peel back your skin and find pink fiberglass,
realize you are uninhabitable.
look closer, note the beams
exposed and rotting.
even as a house no one could find a home in you.
even now the trauma waltzes in,
sits on the couch,
puts its feet up in front of the fireplace
you built with your own hands.