Usually in sync, two birds live in my soul,
One watches without passion, the other identifies with role.
The one observing knows, but doesn't feel in its bones,
When things get overwhelming, I get split in zones.
I remember the events, but they lack any feel,
They didn't really happen, is how I rationalize and deal.
But the experience is embedded, the body keeps the score,
Any small trigger cascades, the dynamite in store.
Some say I've repressed, and that gives the memories charge,
When you keep under pressure, the lava will eventually barge.
Others say I've dissociated, my parts stranger to me,
To integrate requires blessings, of powers to be.
Analyze me all you want, neither of the birds is going to die,
I know I'll fly again, by and by.
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