My trauma wears Crocs
My Trauma Wears Crocs
My trauma wears Crocs—
bright yellow, with stickers peeling off.
It doesn’t care how serious you want life to look.
It clomps into therapy,
kicks its feet,
asks if there’s snacks.
It’s loud at the wrong time,
laughs when I’m crying,
sits beside me on the floor and says,
“We’re not going anywhere, are we?”
I thought healing would wear silk.
Turns out, it just wants comfort.
-whenthesunsets
Muhonja n
#w
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