Trauma

Perhaps trauma has no discrete edges. It bleeds from wounds and words and across boundaries, flying outward from the center before shattering, vase-like, in an extravagant effort to be seen: a container for wishes we attempt to piece together in the dark before a certain amount is suddenly too much.

Maybe when sadness becomes a seizure, stripped of any protective cloak or force, our hearts demand an experienced escort in response. It is here we keep our vigil, alert for some piece of magic. Catch something far away and draw it close.