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Dear Trauma,

I feel I must bow to your endurance, your stamina, your no-crumbs-left-behind policy 

First I denied you even existed, skipping fa-la-la-la-la through life, tripping, falling, getting back up, tripping, falling, getting back up - How many times is that now - Age x 365 days x 1000 times a day (am I not allowed to bleed and be done with it?)

Then I admitted, reluctantly, maybe there's some buildup or residue somewhere I can't see and maybe it is affecting my daily way - like that pierce I failed to clean after I was stabbed in the heart, not once but a million times (that's gotta leave a scar right?)

Tell me straight-up T, what the f*ck do you want from me? Is this a til-death-do-us-part relationship?

If so, then we might as well be friends