Over it

No one travels to hell and back
without getting a little bit of it on them.
It clings to your clothes and hair
and comes home with you.
In the days of relief and healing–
“Oh, you’re so brave!” and
“I don’t know how I’d survive it,”
you feel seen and bolstered.

But as time passes,
they can smell it on you.
They glimpse it in the different way
your eyes move in a crowded room,
or the shift in your posture.
And it reminds them
that hell is out there,
with tentacles of shadow
that reach for us all.

And by God, or perhaps the devil,
no one wishes you could just get over it
more than you.
Crawling on hands and knees
to search out an inoculation,
to leech out the blood from your veins
and drain it of its bitterness.
Looking for a chemical shower
strong enough to burn the scent,
the whole experience right off of you.

“Be grateful,” they say. “You survived,” they say.
“Don’t fuck up the vibe,” they say.