The Post Disorder

We drank from the same cup, my brother. And she couldn’t bear touch our infant bodies. She was touched first. And my grandmother was livid but she couldn’t live with it so she bought a rug to sleep under. I belonged there, too. It wasn’t news she was afraid. She returned from the war, realizing with her amygdala that fighting must have been a figment of her make believe life. Because her bones, honed with every strain from euphoria, became less hollow for some reason, my brother blamed for his mouth, too. But I prayed for longevity. The scissors that they used to separate me from her womb would be inside me if he left. That’s the difference. She couldn’t bear the repulsiveness. I was barely introduced. So I don’t wait for anyone unless I’m left. Fear induced the tears that left me and the comfort of being close by. Like my grandmother’s lies, darkness filled my body. I took it, unhooking because I, myself, am alive.