At the intersection of POTS and trauma, my body goes both ways.

Unable to eat food, I drink olive oil and pray my body heals.

I stick my tongue in potassium salt so my legs won’t twitch tonight.

Poetry can heal my trauma, but what about my broken body?

How many times can I fight men who know they’re killing me (and want to)?

I want to live in these lines, but I also want to live in the world.

Tonight my body will sleep. Tomorrow my body will walk around.

—

Diary of POTS and trauma written in American Sentences.