Trauma.

Everyone has experienced it on some level.

No one’s trauma is greater than someone else’s.

No one can tell anyone else how their personal trauma should affect them.

A month ago, trauma found its way to my home.

And that is how I ended up with a roommate.

My three year old has taken over.

There are crumbs in the bed, from midnight snacks he thinks he’s sneaking

(But really, I’m just relishing silence night time brings me)

There are toys in here, too.

Miniscule things that I never imagined could make one’s sleep so uncomfortable.

The TV now stays on Disney, it seems, permanently.

And there are other rules, too, apparently.

Like how dare I listen to music, in order to write some poetry

Ugh, I can’t wait til we move.

Then maybe, I’ll be able to reclaim the space

Lost to this child’s trauma

And we’ll have no more drama

Caused by rolling on cars, trucks and other little boys’ must haves

Or me playing music in what is supposed to be- my personal sanctuary.