Trauma Bonded

We made scrambled eggs
in mugs
and hunted crawdads
in a creek that isn’t there anymore.

Overgrown rushes invited us
into water-worn embankments
and thickets of leaves. There was

an empty knoll
jammed against a wall
along the hill you
rode your bike down,
ending at the corner
where you got hit
by a car and quickly got up,
waving sorry
to the poor old woman
who was beside herself.

Not far from there,
you threw a brick

through a car window. We watched
from my bedroom until it got dark,
waiting for the police.

We took bullets
from a box and chucked them
at the cement

as hard as we could, or taped them
to the end of a BB gun
like that time you shot your leg.

I was terrified. Your neighbor
ran us to the hospital,
and I remember picturing
the building’s glass doors
sliding open to your distant screams,
doctors sterilizing
your entrance and exit wounds.

We must be
trauma bonded. It’s the only
reason I know
you still think of me.

I don’t blame myself, but you
didn’t deserve
what we went through. Remember

when we ditched school,
and the recess aides
had to run us down? All we ever did

was spike the cortisol
of anyone who tried to look after us.
What we didn’t know is

they were children too.
I hope you forgave yourself.