twenty-two in poems

I am working through this trauma.
This trauma you gave me.
But this trauma is the loud,
screaming your name at
the top its lungs
until nothing else fits in my head
the shallow earth bursting with thoughts
of you and your hands and fingers
and the venom of your tongue
so even when I’m
pushing through the trauma
trying to follow my manual
on how to be a human
your name rips my skin open
and tangles in my hair
pulling me back to the ripe
garden of you.