Body Spinning with Trauma Memories

A person walks through a stone labyrinth by the sea, embracing the serene coastal landscape.

In the quiet hum of the late hour,

the world drifts into an embrace of shadows,

where echoes of laughter play hide and seek,

where whispers of pain linger in corners,

uninvited guests at the feast of my thoughts. 

The moon, a silver watchful eye,

bears witness to the unraveling of time. 

I take a breath, deep and laden,

the weight of inhalation

a struggle against the tide of recollection. 

Memories whirl around me,

like autumn leaves surrendering to the wind,

dancing in erratic spirals

before meeting the earth below. 

Each leaf—each memory—carries its narrative:

the broken branches of joy,

the roots of sorrow that run deep. 

Time is both a sculptor and a thief,

molding the surface of me,

leaving patterns of forgotten laughter,

etching scars of grief across the canvas of my skin. 

Trapped within the frame of my being,

I feel the pull of history,

the tug of fate intertwined with my essence. 

The body remembers what the mind seeks to forget. 

I spin,

a slow revolution around fragments of the past,

the axis my own aching heart. 

In the center, I am both witness and captive—

the girl who stood beneath the willow tree,

the harbinger of secrets hidden in the bark

and the earth that cradled my dreams. 

“Say my name,” the tree whispered,

its voice an echoing symmetry,

“but what if the wind stole it away? ”

The world spins in larger circles,

while I retrace the spirals of my soul. 

Each breath—each heartbeat—a reminder

of battles that were fought in silence,

volcanoes of feelings that erupted beneath the surface. 

I hold my body in the palm of my memory. 

It knows the places I’ve been,

the shadows that stretched across my path. 

With every turn, I confront the ghosts,

these apparitions of moments buried beneath layers

of laughter stifled by circumstance,

of flights unattempted due to whispered fears. 

They cling to the fibers of my being,

each thread woven tight,

the fabric of survival worn against the storm. 

The ache unfurls like a ribbon,

frayed at the edges but vibrant still,

an ever-changing landscape of my heart. 

I see the little girl searching for sunbeams,

her hands stained by the soil of shyness,

the echoes of her laughter

a melody buried deep in the cavern of time. 

She spins, she twirls, naïve and unfazed,

unaware of the veils that will soon

shade—the innocence that will one day

comfort itself within shadows. 

Fragmented scenes emerge,

vignettes, flickering light,

a dance of remembrance—

wildflower fields painted with laughter,

bright against the storms that would come. 

Clouds unfurling heavy, turn gray,

and the winds begin their haunting howl. 

In the spin of this body,

I breathe in—

inhale the sweetness of joy,

exhale the bitterness of fear,

the rhythm orchestrated by the drum of the heart. 

Do you see how the petals twist? 

Colors blending into memories,

the yellows of sunny days,

the reds of teardrops falling upon pages,

each hue brimming with the weight of experience. 

The earth remembers, spinning along like a waltz,

all the while I remain,

the steady center of my own abyss. 

Fast forward: the years hustle past,

a growing cacophony of voices and noises

that swell like a tide, threatening to engulf. 

Amidst the chaos, I learn to anchor,

to stand firm against the surge. 

“Dance,” the constant echoes urge. 

“Spin away the hurt until it unfurls as light. ”

So I twirl—feet grounded in this temporal space,

unraveling the tapestry of grievances,

facing the past I hold, the past that holds me. 

With each turn, I collect the scents,

the layers of aroma that linger:

sun-warmed skin, blooming lilacs,

damp earth after a fall rain,

the sweetness soft like silk. 

What does the body know of trauma? 

It knows the language of ache,

it whispers through joint and sinew,

carries the weight of countless stories,

unraveled in the swift spin,

each sensation a testament,

a marker on the path I traverse alone. 

In the shaking hands that weave stories,

in the tremors of songs tucked beneath the skin,

the legacy of memory is born. 

The music plays—a gentle crescendo—

a symphony composed in heartbeats,

and in this softness, I swim. 

In the melty warmth of passion,

I taste the sweetness of forgiveness,

the nectar that coats the tongue,

sweet like honey,

stinging like a bee that remembers

the bloom from which it came. 

But this is not a straightforward journey;

it spins and spirals like a cyclone,

chaotic moments whirl—

like spinning plates in a jester’s dance—

ramifications woven deep,

the tender scars still throbbing,

each flicker of understanding shaped

by the hands of time, burdened yet resilient. 

I lift my arms to the twilight air,

whirling through grains of salt and sand,

the residue of yesterday’s ocean—

a blend of moments worn and washed,

blurring lines drawn stark upon the shore. 

In this body spinning with trauma memories,

there is revolution. 

In my veins flows a river replete with histories,

each drop a testament,

carving deeper into the landscape of me. 

One small circle leads to another,

a spiral staircase rising, falling,

the echoes of laughter—

resonating refrains of a small child’s hope. 

With every turn I reach deeper,

peeling back layers—

the brittle shields forged in the fires of doubt. 

Storm clouds gather, just beyond the horizon,

yet within me, an ember struggles,

a small flicker of light unquenchable. 

It ignites the shadows trapped within the spin,

transmuting sorrow, gathering warmth,

until it bathes my body in golden glow. 

I breathe, living the paradox of struggles and strength,

the fragile beauty of what has been,

realizing the resilience in the swirling dance,

the unending repetition of cycles,

where trauma meets tapestry,

and in the heart of this spin,

a fragile truce blooms. 

I stand still for a heartbeat,

the world spiraling on its axis,

the haunting echoes whispering softly,

and I—

I choose to spin,

to dance,

to be more than the pain—

a vessel of stories to be told,

a witness to the light that can flourish,

even among the thorns left behind. 

With a firm step, I claim my dance. 

With each spin, I unearth—

a bright mosaic of light

in a world still learning to embrace

the tangled beauty of its own scars,

the richness of the tales buried deep,

the profound wisdom spun through trauma,

growing in the dance of life,

ever circling back to where I belong. 

So let me spin,

let me twirl,

and in this communion with the self,

find in the shadows a depth of grace,

the body spinning with trauma memories

weaving the fabric of resilience,

where echoes turn to laughter,

and silence transforms to song. 

Through the labyrinth of memory,

I dance my way home,

a celebration of all that was meant to unearth,

in the sacred spin of this body,

a promise,

a prayer,

a quest for peace.