"You have mild PTSD," | final version

"You have mild PTSD,"
she heard.
Cool. This world in itself
is a trauma,
she says, seemingly with humility.
That guy could have chosen not to smoke that cigarette,
maybe he would have touched me better,
maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much
if he had concluded that caves
are explored blindly,
that I am a slippery Wieliczka
through which many have already passed.
I am not bitter, Mr. Psychiatrist,
he was the one who fed me dark chocolate
while tightening his heavy hands
around my thighs.
My lips are always laced shut,
finally, I can speak.

"Not so mild, after all," he sighed.