AN OPEN LETTER TO THE MAN OUTSIDE OF HOBBY LOBBY WHO KEPT TRYING TO TELL ME MY SERVICE-DOG-IN-TRAINING WAS A BELGIAN MALINOIS DESPITE THE FACT THAT SHE IS AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN A GERMAN SHEPHERD

{THE POET PRETENDS TO LOOK INTO THE CAMERA LIKE ADAM SCOTT IN PARKS & REC}

IN WHICH I PROMPTLY TURN INTO A GHOST AND HAUNT THE TRUCK STOP WHERE WE STOPPED TO PEE ON THE 32 HOUR DRIVE BACK HOME FROM MONTANA

F*CK (CENSORED FOR MY PARENTS, WHO FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER)

THIS IS NOT THE MICROAGGRESSION I EXPECTED TO EXPERIENCE TODAY

I FREEZE, NOT INSTANTANEOUSLY LIKE A DEER CAUGHT IN THE HEADLIGHTS BUT LIKE WATER IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER, SLOWLY, OVER TIME

A CENTO IN WHICH WAYNE FROM LETTERKENNY EXPLAINS MY RELATIONSHIP WTH TRAUMA

OOF, NO, YEAH, THAT SUCKS, DUDE

IT’S OVER BEFORE IT BEGINS

MY FRIEND AND I SCREAM THE LYRICS OF A FRONT BOTTOMS SONG IN THEIR CAR BEFORE THEY DROP ME OFF

<INSERT SOMETHING WITTY ABOUT RECOVERY HERE>

SEE, EVERY POEM I’VE EVER WRITTEN IS ABOUT TRAUMA IN SOME WAY, EVEN THIS ONE