My trauma has become an excuse for my inadequacies. A crutch for the shallow breaths I choose to take. Third chance to second chance to no chance at all will end with another sad narration about my trauma. These are the notes on which I have left.
I am buried beneath the litter I created. Dirty and wounded, I am surrounded by my sad stories and excuses and broken crutches. And the realization, all too late.
The problems I was born into came with a set of wings. I was just too small to see them.