Happy 4th, May Your Memories Attack

Happy Fourth.

 

The neighbors cheer,

the children laugh,

the sky ignites with every crack.

 

But me?

 

I hear a different soundtrack.

 

I hear the past.

I hear the screams.

I hear the shattered, broken dreams.

I hear the silence in between

where I still wake and relive scenes.

 

One whole year.

 

Three hundred sixty-five damn days,

yet somehow I'm still lost in that maze.

 

The calendar changed.

The seasons passed.

But trauma is a ghost

that never stays in the past.

 

It follows.

It swallows.

It hollows the bone.

 

It turns a crowded room

into feeling alone.

 

One year ago today,

my world was ripped away.

 

Not stolen.

Not misplaced.

Not gently erased.

 

No.

 

It was shattered.

Scattered.

Battered and bruised.

 

And every piece of me

was forced to pay dues.

 

The fireworks go boom.

 

And my heart follows suit.

 

The sound hits my chest

like a steel-toed boot.

 

Another explosion.

Another attack.

 

Another freight train

running me over the tracks.

 

The whistle blows.

 

The memories know.

 

And suddenly I'm not here anymore.

 

I'm standing in yesterday,

frozen in place,

trying to escape a nightmare

wearing a familiar face.

 

Everybody says,

"Just let it go."

 

As if trauma is a coat

you can throw in the snow.

 

As if survival is simple.

As if healing is fast.

 

As if the human soul

wasn't built to remember the past.

 

I remember.

 

God, I remember.

 

I remember too much.

 

The panic.

The terror.

The poison of touch.

 

The feeling that safety

had vanished from sight.

 

The way my whole world

collapsed in one night.

 

I remember the anger.

I remember the fear.

 

I remember surviving

another damn year.

 

And that's the cruel joke

nobody sees.

 

You survive the moment,

but not always the memories.

 

The bruises may fade.

 

The wounds may close.

 

But trauma grows roots

where nobody knows.

 

Deep in the marrow.

Deep in the brain.

 

Deep in the places

still aching with pain.

 

Happy Fourth.

 

May your memories attack.

 

Mine showed up early

and never unpacked.

 

They sleep in my shadows.

They hide in my skin.

 

They're waiting for fireworks

to wake them again.

 

Every flash is a trigger.

 

Every bang is a key.

 

Unlocking a prison

still buried in me.

 

And I'm angry.

 

Dear God, I'm angry.

 

Angry enough

to choke on the flame.

 

Angry that I carry

the weight and the shame.

 

Angry that monsters

can walk away free.

 

While the aftermath

still lives inside me.

 

But listen.

 

Listen close.

 

Because there is something

the memories hate.

 

Something they never expected

when they sealed my fate.

 

I am still breathing.

 

Still standing.

 

Still here.

 

Even when I'm drowning

in another year's fear.

 

The train may hit me.

 

The tracks may bend.

 

The nightmares may whisper

that this is the end.

 

But every Fourth of July

that I survive,

 

is proof

 

that despite what happened,

 

despite what was taken,

 

despite every scar

that refuses to slack,

 

I am still alive

 

while the memories attack.

 

So let the fireworks thunder.

 

Let the whole sky crack.

 

I'll stand in the ashes

and stare right back.

 

Because one year later,

 

through sorrow and pain,

 

through tears that fall

like relentless rain,

 

through every flashback,

every wound,

every crack,

 

I'm still here.

 

And the memories

 

can choke

 

on that.