It comes in many forms

            A malignant shadow hiding away from light

It comes in the shudder at sound

            In the jump-scare of fireworks

It is the sweating fear of a café or shop

            It is the trembling hands that just can’t stop

It is the freezing

            The leg-locking sensation of nightly terrors

                        Of sweats drenching

It comes in the smell of cologne

            Musky and lingering

                        It has lived within memory for many years

It is unshakable

            Unmovable

                        It is stubborn and persistent

It is the “why can’t you?” or the “still?”

            It is the “I can’t.” and the “please understand”

It is the potency of a smell, so strong

            No matter how hard you scrub,

                        It never comes off

It is the avoidance of crowds

            Traffic

                        Airports

                                    Stations

                                                Shows

                                                            Loud music venues

It is the pestilence agonising over forgotten numbers

            Or the constant worry of saying the wrong thing

It is the explaining to children why you have those scars

            Or to future employers who ask you “do you own a cat?”

                        Or the strangers that grab you without personal boundaries

It is the pain of sitting out on fun singing and dancing

            It is the musk of dank dark rooms

Filled with a potent stench of sadness

It is called many things

            Friend, it is not

Rather, a foe;

            A feisty being

                        A rabid dog

It snarls, gnashing its teeth

            It is seen by some

                        Empathised by even fewer

It is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

            In all his glory

It is depression

            It is feeling so desperate to smile,

                        Its suicide.