It is customary to oust the

painful memories from our past,

in some place beside us,

below us,

so that we do not have to revisit them.

We prefer to leave hurt behind,

expel it from our bodies,

reject all that is sharp and hazardous,

to be nourished by the softer matters.

Pain is the accumulation of bone, feather, and fur.

The exoskeletons of our own closets.

An oval mass of indigestible material.

Trauma becomes an owl pellet.

We are not meant to examine,

to pull apart,

to peer with intentional curiosity,

at the things our bodies will us to dispel.

But some of us do.

The intact bones of trauma,

raw material too dense to break down,

offering a particular kind of insight,

for the ones who choose to pick apart the past.

Not to suffer,

but to learn,

to understand.

To collect what was formerly discarded,

the regurgitated rejections of unpalable history,

and puzzle over it,

like some detective.

Hellbent on connecting the dots,

examining the truth,

no matter how gnarled.

You are a Barred Owl who collects her own pellets.

Picks them apart one by one.

To discover the anatomy of self.

To master the science of my own personal ecology.

To examine and acknowledge every part of who you are,

and what you have experienced,

even the parts that are hard to digest.