Trigger

Pain tightens around my ribcage,
Trauma’s corset perhaps;
Fear like that of childhood immobilizing.
What is this feeling?
Anxiety so dominant
I remember my mind and reason tied in knots.
Why do I hate being talked down to so much?
There is a sort of shriveled, mangled creature
In the condescender, a bitter sword point,
A desire to pierce another’s ego.

I strive not to further the flames,
Though my instinct is to parry back.
I imagine their souls as miserable fetuses,
Curled, muscles taut: protective shells.
I tell myself not to be ashamed;
That my energy has been put elsewhere.

I hate that they change me into something like them:
A being that wants the high ground, to draw blood.
They lack emotional intelligence, undoubtedly;
They think mainly of themselves,
Not able to see beyond their own aims.
Their souls are torn, if not split.

I don’t want to see them as they see me:
As pawns, tools, objects or supporting actors,
But as people struggling through quicksand,
Sinking gradually into mind-tangles,
(Perhaps the realest of hells),
And always with subtlety, hooks, lures, tones, wiles,
Retorts, excuses, endless justifications and
Wounds they don’t seem to want healed.
I hate what is self-serving and thoughtless;
It is how they make me feel that I hate.