Trauma Buddy

They said it was ugly. They said the pine trees were ugly. I don't understand, it's almost rude, to have that opinion. It's as if they don't daydream in the Rocky Mountains twenty-five hours a day. That's all I really have to say about it, for now. I'll get into it when I turn twenty-two.

I don't know if the stars and the planets and the dust of the universe are all telling me to love him or to void any possible chance of finding happiness with another human being. It's reassuring that we hear the same voice that commands us to crash the car on the toll road, at eighty-five miles an hour, and the voice that tells us that there's something there - there's a real chance - but brain chemical slavery is real, true, and here. It leaves me depressed as Mother Nature in the trump era. 

It's hard to remember the electricity of hands touching, it's hard to remember jumping into piles of leaves, and screaming and screaming and screaming with her before we even got on the roller coaster, when my home is melting, on this planet that I am actively helping ravage. 

I'm here, though. I'm here, I'm trying to find meaning in all of this. What did it mean when he pinned me down? What did it mean when I -

That's enough. That's all I can think about right now.