Just Another Poetry Book

February 1st, 2018

February 1st, 2018

If I'm being honest I really don't know which is worse.

Was it the scars on my legs that wouldn't stop bleeding

the surrounding skin red and angry.

Maybe it was the sharp, lasting pain affecting my coccyx.

It never went away, constantly there whenever I sat, stood, laid...

Perhaps it was the recurring flashbacks that caused me to

flinch, thrust back, gasp, cry, or shake

when it haphazardly hit, whether at school, the store, or home.

Oh, but the nightmares, possibly that had me the most panic-stricken?

Continuously reliving the same truck running into me, over me, through me.

My body paralyzed in dream but as I woke

unrestrained tears stained my cheeks and bedding.

My best friend, sitting beside me in the car; her laugh, smile, the touch of her hand

all so brutally taken away as that same Black Ram

appeared again and again.

Her life gone within the blinking moment of a dream.

I remember the first night I had dreamt it,

a choked cry suffocated my throat as my hand thrusted out into the air

my back leaving the sweat-soaked sheets.

My heart pounded with pain and I so desperately wanted to call her

to check if she was still alive.

But I knew the accident did not affect her as it does to me.

She went to school the next day with only a bruise on her knee.

My grandma, bruised as well but on her chest and stomach.

Me, shades of purple and blue painted my legs, left arm, and mental state.

I told (well, my grandma had to do it for me) my therapist about the accident.

PTSD was what I had, unsurprisingly.

But what I hadn't expected her to say after an hour session of crying was,

"That's it?"

At least the nightmares, that left me hyperventilating,

went away after a few dire months along with my flashbacks.

My coccyx is fine now, but is still bruised,

the pain somewhat recently subsided to affect me after an hour or so on a

chair, bed, or fifteen minutes on the floor.

My scars, a persistent reminder with both appearance and nerve damage.

I've become so terrified of cars I avoid them as much as I can.

I walk to school every day in the above 100 degree weather

and below 30 degree winds.

Despite it all, if I must answer which is worse,

I'd say it was the day it happened, which I no longer celebrate.

A final "Happy Birthday" to sixteen year old me.

A/N: 

This is a true story.