Raven Taylor Poems

Sometimes my memory of childhood breaks like a wrist. I find myself trying to forget where I come from to eat the pain of never being loved carefully. No one ever showed me what it was like to be gently folded before being put into a box. So now, I struggle to find the places where my creases fall.

Sometimes my memories of childhood are broken glass shattered in different parts of my body to remind me where my trauman comes from. Today my trauma comes from the bottom of my feet, yesterday it came from the palms of my hands. Tomorrow, it will probably find its home sitting in the middle of my chest pulling on my lungs bringing me back to the question that I always seem to ask myself. Why do remember disasters? I remember disasters simply because they raised me.
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