Cat’s got my tongue but not my thumb, accept I don’t align with plumb, typing text acts like the needle that injects medications for the trepidations that come with this betrayal of respect. Walk away on a low note with your head held high, this is how they finally die, reasons are in season and there’s nowhere left to hide. Therapy should take care of me when the dreams scream to be aired and free. I miss the familiarity but I’m scared to be and I need that taken seriously. It’s only visible in a mirror but it’s there. My friend PTSD, my diagnosed injury, the most recent part of my identity. A diagnosis is stable, I’m not crazy just unable to face another day of the hurt on display when you dance with the devil to the music that he makes.