The sound that stayed

A poem.

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The sound that stayed

I was thirteen when the towers fell—

watched them fold on a classroom TV,

ash blooming like a second sky.

No one called it trauma then.

No one called me anything at all.

I was undiagnosed,

a body tuned too high,

absorbing impact without insulation.

That night, my fear leaked out of me

while I slept.

Shame came later.

It always does.

Now I wake to death in my palm

a man shot in the street,

names scroll faster than grief can form.

Violence delivered before breakfast.

I carry it with me to the kitchen,

twist open a can of biscuits

and the pop splits the air

my nervous system dives for cover

like it always has,

like it learned to do in 2001.

Gunshot.

Collapse.

Compressed dough.

The body does not rank horrors.

It only knows sudden endings.

It only knows the world can rupture

without asking permission.

Somewhere between the towers

and the timeline,

between the wet sheets

and the warm oven,

I am still trying to teach my body

that morning is allowed to be safe.

Maybe that’s why the phone feels dangerous.

Too many collapses.

Too many sounds that stay.

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