To “heal” one’s trauma is an erasure of their dimensional gensis. It is a polite execution of the self nurtured in the aftermath. What is called recovery and repair is but merely a return to the dull shape of the acceptable and mundane. Something harmless to the environment and to the peace of others. Pain forgotten and hearts stripped of the hard earned honorary badges, and buried instead under the shallow soil of what is called normal and healthy.

Every scar is an untranslatable sentence in the private language of your survival. To mend it away is to declare your own history obscene. You do not repair a heart by stitching the cracks that let the light in. You do not dismantle your kingdom to make it easier on the preying eyes of the enemy known as others.

If my suffering has made me a monster, then let me remain so. I'm all the less prettier, perhaps, but infinitely more true. I don't want to regrow my amputated limbs, it's enough to lick my wounds whenever they bleed out.

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