What about the things we could not change?
(Perhaps, never can and never will).
What about how they eat us up whole, alive?
What about how much we understand of control?
And thus how well we know how little we can do about some things,
and yet we break;
what about how hard we break?
It heals, some wounds.
I could tell you about wounds that never heal,
wounds that watch as time passes by,
as everything else changes,
but the wake of the sores, but the pain…
the wounds as fresh, as deep, as hellish
But what about the wounds we talk nothing of?
What about the ones that keep us up most nights?
What about how hard we’ve tried to forget the pain,
to let go, forget what happened, to move past it all?
What about how impossible that has felt?
As you close your eyes…
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