Host of Trauma

What are you good at?

I feel trust and mistrust
 The way dogs see a scent trail
 The way pigeons see home 

He walks with broken hips
 That sway like birch trees
 After a tempest that undermines the vines if the earth
 Holds his mouth ready for betrayal

She blinked like a moment in a dream
 Where the sun went out for a few seconds
 Like a threat. I don't watch her hands
 They are scoundrels, all solid hair oil
 And paper smiles. 

They cannot hide from those moorings
 Revealing their intent like a rotten fruit
 Sour and foaming. I feel danger
 The gift of hurt, over and over
 Too young to be this afraid
 Vigilance is a rusty key

 I see each soul, taste intent
 Like a dark necromancer, bringing supposition back from rest
 There is no way to hide from me
 There is no way to hide from myself.