Enough yet

have I tried moving on with my life

and not being defined by it?

I have tried nothing but, but

I'm not gasping through perspex now, but

I am in a way

and there's no threat of being IM'ed or restrained but

there is in a way

and it's barbed, tangled deep in my brain

two weeks at most, I thought

but how can I be assured

that indefinite sentences ever end after all

now each day, the reminders! such stupid ones, too:

crumbs on plates, rattling keychains, alarms, mid-2010s tunes

warped stretches of time with less than nothing to do

searched, weighed near-nude, no personhood, and

what since? moved cities, did degrees, cold and numb

look at this! I've achieved something but,

but for what? fight, flight, fawn, freeze, but

how I crave the relief of some dreams

or ambitions, some real goals, a future, an iota of peace, and

how many years since then? eight, give or take, but

even now if I lie there in darkness awake -

I'm sixteen again, back in that room, no escape, but

in reality, these days? I choose what I eat

come and go as I please

relieve myself privately - imagine such luxury! no one locks me in anywhere now, and

you know what? I'm the girl who respawned from nothing alone, so

perhaps in the course of another near-decade

I'll trust that my body is really my own

and that basic rights are in fact mine to claim

I'll stop fumbling my words as I try to explain

what went on

what it did

the inescapable pain

how I can't run from it, nor face it, make it just go away,

how I really truly do try to move on all the same.