Carrying trauma is like walking around with a knife in your belly. Even after you’ve become accustomed to the idle pain, people will bump into you and set it off anew. They’ll walk on with barely a nod. You’ll mutter under your breath how they should really watch to where the fuck they’re walking. Maybe they’ll overhear you and become incensed themselves; they are moral and good after all; it says so on their dating profiles. Perhaps others will hear too and rush to repair your perception of everyday injustice by assuring you it was an accident and that good people just aren’t actively looking for knives in bellies and well generally they don’t look below the neck line unless they’re actually bad people, perverts or maybe those microaggressors everyone once talked about. It befits the tragic to just move on or to be more forgiving of charmed-life normies who just couldn’t possibly know better because we live in a time where all human knowledge is stored as cuneiform on stone tablets in the hands of miserly dead kings buried atop the mountains; if only we had a better system of organizing information; it could be ‘queried’ so to speak or something. The next time my knife is jolted and I feel that electric pain shoot up through my heart and into my eyes as they roll back and shut, I will remember that I’m supposed to be stronger than I am for the sake of all delicate and ignorant people; they are entitled to their happiness.