The floriculture of trauma

Trauma rarely remains still in the past. It grows slowly, moves through time and finds new ways to exist. Sometimes it changes shape until it becomes almost unrecognizable, yet it continues to bloom in the most unexpected places of our lives.

Trauma 1
The metal slide wasn’t a game, it was a test. In august it turned scorching hot and you learned never to stop, despite the burns.

Trauma 2
I had a beautiful friend, almost perfect. She had a wooden playhouse in her garden. She never invited me inside. I hated her then and I still hate now.

Trauma 3
It all began with that shawl, with the animal’s head. For a long time I couldn’t sleep: I imagined the furs were just asleep on their hangers, ready to wake up at any moment.

Trauma 4
The washing machine in motion was an hypnotic journey. I watched it spin so many times. Then one day it swallowed my Barbie socks and never gave them back.