I saw a light

I saw a light

I write to survive. Or writing has been a coping mechanism. Or writing has given me a way to tell my story over and over because parts of my body story will never leave me. I have come to terms with the fact that if I live to be seventy years old, there may be something in the air to give me a flashback into the portal of trauma. The portal could begin with an image or a name or the way my eyes look deeper when I am sad. Anything can transport me back.