Polyamory is hard, but the smell of shit on my fingers grounds me. Polyamory is hard but PTSD is harder. I could make anything in the world, anything at all, and this is what comes out of me. Something gross and grounding and audible through thin walls. Something disgusting we try to forget. A part of ourselves that we shove out and hide. Something that’s always begging us to let it leave.
PTSD is a disease of memories. Everything is always memories. What’s in front of you isn’t in front of you, it’s 5 years old, 10 years old, 20 years old, days gone by that can’t find a way to leave. Something circles and waits to escape. Is the shit a part of me? You already know. You already know that it feels like it’s all there is left. My excrement is the only thing left behind when I finally decide to go. No, when I’m made to leave. Made into something useless except to leave behind.