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TRAUMA IS A STAIN OF BLOOD, pretending to be paint on a palate of purity and transparency.

It begins as a perfect storm, a tsunami of turmoil and angst, wreaking havoc on the perfectly constructed walls of one's mind. It moves quickly; clearing away conceptions of freedom and self-preserving prerogatives. It's sustaining and tumultuous and unending.

Trauma is a chaser for pain, cleansing the poisons of sins faux cleansing promise of absolution.

But trauma always wins. It dances across thoughts and binds to an otherwise beautiful soul, darkening it with vindication and enmity.

It moves quietly, slipping through alleys and twisting memories into weapons. Daggers are wielded by wounded tongues and hearts are fenced behind barbed wire. It constructs new villages of doubt and violence. It screams loudly, demanding to be heard, refusing to be silenced.

When trauma chooses you, it does so without hesitation. As it sinks its fangs into your bloodstream and pronounces you its final victim: there is no escape.

There is no amount of time that can remove the chains and liberate you from the inevitable suffering. There is no help that can annul you from damage.

Trauma doesn't ask for consent, it doesn't beg for forgiveness. It only knows hunger and thirst for corruption.

It is a cataclysmic event consisting only of your worst nightmares, your precious moments, your hidden objections. It tackles you across a stadium of reflection and professes itself a winner.

Trauma is not for the faint of heart, but it nestles comfortably in those who rebuttal. It inhabits the soul and attacks the flesh from within. It eats away at morality, vindication, and sanctimony. It leaves a black hole of all-consuming self-hatred, leaving nothing but terror in its wake.

And trauma will consume you, if you let it.

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