Souvenir

Here I hold
This souvenir;
Tattered and
Broken and
Falling apart.
Still I carry it.
A reminder of
The darkest days
Of northern winter.
Still I carry it.
Many time I’ve tried
To shield it
From my mind,
In the back
Of a drawer
Or some
Deep
Dark
HOle.
It only goes on
Haunting me
Long year
After year.
.
.
Now that I’ve
Retrieved it
I see it
Holds a jewel.
That I might be
Whole and
No longer a stranger
To the world.
Beautiful in
Absoluten
Zerrissenheit.

Wiedervereinigung.

What I’ve found,
You see,
I can no more forget
Than I can
Forget to breath.
What I’ve found,
You see,
This tattered souvenir
Is me.

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Filed under child, poem, poetry, ptsd, souvenir, suppression

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